A Political Affair
by Chelsss
Summary: Nobody said it was easy. Nobody said it was fair. No one was suppose to get hurt. All is fair in love and war.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is just some idea that spurred into my mind. Hopefully you all like it. I tried to incorporate some historical accuracies in this stories, but I took my liberties; so please, don't be offended (the movie itself wasn't accurate to begin with). **

**Chapter 1:**

_The grass tickled her feet as she ran. She ran as fast as her dainty bare feet could take her. Her brown locks were tangled in the wind, covering her face. She suddenly stopped to catch her breath. She looked back to scout for him. When their eyes met, she smiled and laughed_

"_You'll never catch me."_

_She picked up her skirts and started running again. But she was no match for him. He was older, faster and stronger. Before she could do anything, she felt his arms wrap around her waist. He lifted her up with ease. He placed his chin on her shoulder, and placed small kisses on her neck. She giggled in response. _

_"Let go of me!" she said between breathes. He gently placed her on the soft grass and hovered over her, placing each arm at the side of her head. She was still laughing, and he thought she was beautiful. He bent down to kiss her on the lips. He kissed her so softly and gently, it made her mad with desire and passion. She was quick to respond and deepened the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck; a silent demand: "I want you." _

_They were like this; entangled with each other, for quite some time. Eventually they tore their lips apart to catch their breath. She looked up in his deep brown eyes and smiled._

_"Promise me you'll love me forever. No matter what happens," she whispered._

_He bent down to kiss her neck, placing each kiss below her jaw line. She moaned in response. He was not one for words. His actions spoke for him. But ever so softly, between each kiss, he quietly whispered, "I promise."_

Her eyes darted wide open. Her brow had broken a sweat. This was the third night in a row, that she had this dream. A dream of her past – a past she wished she could just simply forget. She looked outside and looked out to the city. Dawn had just broken, as the sun was beginning to peak from the mountains. Looking out her window, she could see the early merchants and traders coming in to set up their businesses. She saw a group of children walking to school. The early signs in life in the forum also meant it was time for her to begin her day as well.

She walked over to her basin and splashed some cold water on her face. She then proceeded to dress in her uniform. _Another day,_ she thought. She had been doing the same thing everyday for the past thirteen or so years. Yet she never grew tired of it.

She walked out of her room and made her way to the courtyard, where her commander, and mentor, Marcus Gaius was sparring with the emperor's nephew. She observed her commander. He was a capable warrior, and a good leader. He was also very close to the Emperor, thus making him an abled politician. She thought, he made a better soldier. She had come to admire him. Afterall, it was Marcus who gave her a second life. She watched as Marcus was teaching the emperor's nephew a simple defence stance. _clack clack clack_. The wooden swords connected, and they began sparring again. In her eyes, it was like a dance. Fighting was a skilful art of dance. One had to move correctly, move quickly and move gracefully. If not, death was inevitable.

"I think that's enough for this morning," Marcus said to the young boy, much to his disappointment.

"Oh please, commander. I want to learn more!" The boy could not have been older than eight years old. She stifled a giggle. Marcus turned to her direction and he too, had laughed. She nodded at him – her version of good morning.

Marcus roughed up the young boy's hair. "Another time, my young apprentice. Go now, you will be late for your classes, and then I will get in trouble."

The young boy jumped in response and ran out of the courtyard, with his wooden sword.

"Isolde. It's wonderful to see you."

She slowly walked to him and drew her own sword from her back, "And it's always wonderful to beat your arse."

He raised an eyebrow at her. Was she challenging him? He smirked and drew his own sword from his waist. The circled around each other, sizing each other up, trying to predict each other moves.

Isolde had spent years studying Marcus' moves. She knew his strengths, and she knew his weaknesses. She predicted he'd make the first move.

She was right.

He moved to the right, hoping to disarm her. But she was quicker than that. Isolde easily blocked his move and counterattacked, deliberately aiming low. Marcus was a big man. Lunging towards the ground meant extra work for him. He may have been stronger, but Isolde was quicker on her feet.

They were at this for some time. It was a matter of time before one of them tired out. Marcus was quite impressed. With his mentoring, Isolde had become one of the finest soldiers in his century. Even though she was a woman, even though was Sarmatian, even though many regarded her as a slave of Rome, she was feared and respected throughout the military and the Senate.

Isolde lunged at his feet one more time, to which Marcus was slightly caught off guard. He stumbled back, which gave Isolde the opening she was looking for. She twisted her sword and use the hilt of her sword to hit his arm to disarm his sword. She kicked his shin, which caused Marcus to fall on one knee. Marcus, on the other hand, was expecting her to do that. He drew a dagger from his waist, ready to lunge at her again.

However, he was not quick enough. The dagger was kicked out of his hand, and he found himself staring into her sword.

"Do you yield?" she asked confidently. If she was expecting an easy victory, she was sadly mistaken.

"The real question is, do you yield?"

He looked down, to which Isolde followed suit. Marcus had taken out another dagger, and had it pointing at her stomach.

Isolde was baffled, "But how did you-"

Marcus withdrew his weapon, and replaced it to its hiding place. "You must always be wary of your surroundings Isolde. Your enemy has two hands. You may disarm one hand, but never forget the other."

Withdrawing her own sword, she took in what he said, "Perhaps next time then. Next time, I'll win."

He laughed, "Perhaps. Come now, we have a meeting with the Senate."

Isolde rolled her eyes and sighed. "What do those selfish pigs want now? Cut the military in half? Send us to Iberia to deal with the Visigoths?"

"Don't insult the Senate, Isolde." He said sternly. Marcus highly respected the Senate. He believed, that one day, Rome would return to its former glory and return to a Republic. Isolde thought Marcus was blind. She believed the Senate was useless. All they did was talk. Talk about their problems, do nothing about it, and blame each other for it.

"Do you ever miss it?" he asked.

Isolde turned to her counterpart, "Miss what?"

"Briton, of course."

She half-smiled, "No." She then remembered the dream she had. She pictured the young couple kissing in the grass. "I don't concern myself with the past."

* * *

The Senate. Full of old men who argued about nothing and everything. Isolde never understood why she was present at these assemblies. In their political eyes, she was nothing but a slave. Technically it was true. Isolde was taken from her homeland thirteen years ago, as part of an agreement between Sarmatia and Rome. Yet Marcus always made her attend to these meetings, for some reason she could not figure out. 

Marcus and Isolde, stood by the wall. Since they were not members, they could sit down and actually debate. They were merely observing. From time to time, the emperor would ask for his military opinion, as they were good personal friends. But that was it.

The Emperor emerged and everyone was silenced. Isolde had subconsciously narrowed her eyes at him. Everybody knew he was a fool. A puppet. Ricimer, a powerful general that controlled most of the Roman military, controlled him. There was no denial that Ricimer wanted to rule as emperor himself. However, because of his Germanic background, he knew it was impossible.

The emperor cleared his throat, "W-what are the is-issues being addressed t-today?"

_How pathetic_, Isolde thought.

An elder man, who Isolde recognized as Senator Gracchus, stood up, "Sire, we need to resolve the impending invasions of the barbarians from Gaul and Germania. Our men are already strained from months of battle. Hundreds are beginning to desert. I have heard from various centurions that their men believe Rome is doomed. The moral is gone, sire. If we are to fight off these foreign invasions, we must provide an incentive!"

Another man, stood up from the back, "Senator Gracchus, then what do you suggest we do? Hand out money? Promise land? We have no more land to give out! We have no more money! I agree these are dark times, but we do not have the resources to bring up the troops morale. That should be the least of the emperor's worries. He has to look closer to home. Heretics speaking against the Church have been more daring. People following in Pelagius' steps. They will start riots, rebellions, revolts. They will put us in danger."

"Perhaps if you stopped spending so frivolously on whores, Senator Flavius, then maybe we'd have enough money for the army! With no army, Rome will fall! We must keep the invaders out!"

An roar of agreement supported Senator Gracchus, while a roar of protest supported Flavius. The voices started escalating, and soon everybody was standing up and started to yell at each other. Again, Isolde rolled her eyes. "All they do is bloody talk, " she muttered.

The emperor looked stressed already. It was clear to Isolde that he did not want to be here. He held up his hand, as a signal for silence.

"I…agree with Senator Flavius. Our treasury is almost empty, because of these invasions. It will be ex-extremely dif-difficult to hand out monet-tary incentives. Ricimer has not reported any troubles among his men. If what you say is true, Gracchus, then I would have _personally_ heard it from him. I cannot supply the army with more troops or resources. I be-believe the best solution is to retreat back. Give up lands that have proved invaluable to Rome. The smaller the empire is, the better control we have."

"You still have faith in Ricimer? My sources tell me he does _nothing_. He's letting the barbarians win," protested Gracchus.

"Do _not_ question my authority, Senator, or you will be removed from this house!"

The senator, clearly shocked in the sudden change of mood, silently sat down. The emperor turned his head slightly towards Marcus and Isolde's direction.

"Primus Pilus, have your men addressed you in their concerns?"

Marcus stood upright, and spoke with confidence and clarity. "Sire, during our campaign in Greece, there has been some questioning of wages and re-enforcements. But generally, my men have high spirits."

The emperor's eyes lit up. "See, there you go!"

"But," Marcus pressed on, "I personally believe that the problem of morale does not lie within the troops, but their leaders. If the commanders and generals lose faith in their campaigns, their men will follow suit. Perhaps then, the issues lies within the leaders."

The emperor took this in, as he nodded and seemed to absorb every word. He then looked at Isolde, "What is your opinion, Sarmatian?"

There was immediate protest. "Sire, she is a slave; a nobody! She shouldn't even be present in this assembly!"

"Indeed, she is not a citizen of Rome. But she has been to parts of the empire, where you have not even seen, Senator. She can accurately tell me about the condition of _my_ empire, without any hidden agenda."

Isolde looked at Marcus for help, but she did not get any. She inwardly sighed. "Then I will not paint you a pretty picture. Your empire is falling, and the chances of revival is slim to none." She knew she was speaking boldly, from the looks of shock from various senators. But she continued. "The barbarians are strong in numbers, and are hungry for blood. Rome does nothing but sit and talk, while their men are in foreign lands doing nothing but awaiting orders. Fighting is not an option anymore. We had that chance, and we lost it. With each day, the Visigoths grow stronger. Our men will be crushed, and there is nothing we can do to stop it."

The emperor, clearly annoyed that a mere woman knew more about the circumstances on his own army than him, had no choice but to agree. "Then what do you suggest we do, _Sarmatian."_ The last word was emphasized. Isolde knew she was silently being reminded of her position. She knew she had crossed the line.

She bowed her head slightly, "I'm not the emperor. It's not my place to say."

She retreated to her spot beside Marcus. "You should not have been so bold to Livius. You know he has a short temper," he whispered in her ear.

"The fool needs as much help as he can get. I'll bet you he'll run back to Ricimer after this meeting, asking for help and advice. He needs to get it through his head it's _his_ decision, not Ricimer's. If you ask me, the real problem of this whole mess is that pompous fool himself."

Marcus smirked. He knew she was right, but wouldn't let him admit it her. "That's why no one asked you."

* * *

The senatorial meeting ended midday, which was a waste of a time, in Isolde's opinion. As usual, nothing was accomplished. "Explain to me why you make me attend those useless assemblies." 

"A good warrior should not only be well-equipped with a sword, Isolde. They need to have the tongue; to conduct truces, stalemates, treaties. A good warrior is a good politician. When you are in the battlefield, you have to learn how to manipulate the situation into your favour. That's what politicians do. They manipulate and they scheme."

Isolde stopped in her tracks and turned to look at her mentor of thirteen years. In her eyes, he was perfect. She stifled a laugh, "Is that all?"

He looked in to her eyes, which made Isolde slightly uncomfortable. She noted that he had been aimlessly staring at her for the past couple of weeks like that; daydreaming. She knew he wanted to say something to her, but he never could.

He blinked himself out the reverie, and regained his composure. "Senator Gracchus quite admired your boldness. He has invited both of us to his house for dinner tonight. I have accepted, on your behalf."

"Marcus, you _know_ I hate those things."

"I know."

"I really prefer to eat with the men. Titus still owes me 10 denarii from last night."

"But you're not eating with them. You're dining with the Senator. That's an order."

"Since when did you become so commanding?"

'I'm your commander. I'm suppose to command."

"Oh, very funny."

* * *

So what do you think? The story hasn't TRULY unfolded yet, maybe it 2-3 chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

The tavern was always full of interesting people. Traders and merchants from foreign lands often came after days of traveling. There were the whores and the wenches that almost always were looking for good business. Then there were the Roman soldiers; stationed in the city to keep peace and order. For Isolde, the tavern was a place to be equal. Equal among her comrades and brothers. Equal among Roman citizens, for social status was disregarded.

Isolde took a seat next to a burly man with no hair. Titus had become one of her closest friends in Rome. He was a strong warrior, and had a reputation with the ladies. To Isolde, Titus was no handsome god, but he was charming, which always won over the ladies. Titus also had a gambling problem, much to her dismay. She knew, it would one day get him into trouble. As she ordered her drink, Titus was conversing with the other men, laughing out loud.

She smiled, "What am I missing?"

Titus gave her a playful shove, "Ah! If it isn't my Sarmatian princess. Where have you been all morning?"

The barwench came over and placed the drink on the table, to which Isolde noticed Titus flirtatiously smiling at her. She rolled her eyes, and lightly punched him in the arm. "While you were aimlessly wooing the women, I was forced to attend to the Senators."

Another soldier, Bedivere gave a shout, "Those old geezers again? Really Isolde, you've been at those meetings ever since we came back to Greece! You're not…earning a little extra on the side are you?"

If Isolde did not know Bedivere from childhood, she would have castrated him right then and there. Instead, she playfully replied back, "I'd hardly think they could keep up with me."

That earned her another roar of laughter. She took a big gulp of her drink, and solemnly said, "The emperor's a fool."

Titus gave her a knowing look. It was a common fact that the emperor, Livius Severus could not make his own decision without running back to Ricimer. The empire was falling, and Ricimer was letting it rot. Because of her frequent appearances at the Senate, Titus had noticed Isolde becoming slightly more opinionated about the recent situation of Rome. He had begun to worry for her. She was no politician – if she became outspoken, Titus was afraid she'd meet an untimely death. He gave her a pat on the shoulder, "Come let's walk."

The two friends left the bar to have a more private conversation, much to Isolde's relief. She didn't like sharing her deepest thoughts with so many people. Though her comrades were all very kind to her over the years, it was Titus she could always fall back for support. As they entered into the market, Titus said, "What troubles you, Isolde?"

She sighed. "To be honest, I don't know." She paused, and looked around the market, as if she wished to distract herself. Titus waited patiently. He knew he couldn't force anything of out her, from experience. Isolde was too damn stubborn for her own good sometimes.

"I keep having this dream, Titus."

"A dream?"

"Yes, a dream."

"And that's what's bothering you? A dream?" he asked hestitantly. Titus felt a wave a relief wash over him. He thought it was something more quite serious.

"And what is this dream about?"

Isolde turned around to her friend, that seemed to tower over her at the moment. She never quite noticed how tall Titus was until this very moment. It intimidated her – it made her feel small and insignificant. _I am insignificant_, she thought. Though Titus knew almost everything about her, she kept her past a secret. They knew she hailed from Briton before arriving at Rome, but that was it. Did she want to open up a wound that she painfully tried to bandage up for 13 years?

"It was…just a silly dream really." She cringed. Isolde didn't like lying to Titus, but she wasn't ready – yet. "About…Sarmatia, and my family. It's foolish. And I know it shouldn't get to me, but I've been away from home for a long time. I guess…I'm beginning to miss it, you know?"

Titus gave her a knowing smile, "That's nothing to be ashamed about. Are you sure that's all?"

She nodded, "Yes. I'm sure."

* * *

She did not expect it be a huge dinner. Isolde thought it would have been the Senator, his wife, Marcus and herself. As she stepped into the banquet hall, she found herself staring at numerous Senators and their wives and daughters, and various military commanders. She nudged Marcus to the side, "You are in huge trouble."

Marcus chuckled, "Relax, perhaps it will be fun."

_Fun? Was he joking?_ she thought. This was definitely not the idea of fun. Sparring was fun. Riding a horse was fun. Drinking and gambling was fun. Spending dinner with old men who do nothing but talk – that was _not_ fun. Isolde had wear a Roman gown for tonight, much to her dismay. Marcus had picked it out for her, for he knew she despised anything that constrained her ability to fight. She looked down at herself, draped in layers of fabric. At least Marcus had taste. She was wearing a white stola, accompanied by a golden broach at the shoulder.

"When this night is over Marcus, I am going to castrate you twice over, " she hissed.

Marcus eyed her carefully, secretly wondering if she'd actually go through with her threat. He had no time to reply, as Senator Gracchus was approaching them.

"Ah, Senator Gracchus! How nice of you to invite us both."

They held each other's forearms, as a way of acknowledging one another. Senator Gracchus turned to Isolde, and his jaw opened slightly. He eyed her up and down and said disbelievingly, "I would not have thought a Sarmatian knight would look so beautiful. I guess that is what makes you so dangerous. Come, let me introduce you to my other guests."

He held his elbow, gesturing Isolde to take it. She looked at Marcus, silently begging him to pull her away. But he showed no indication of helping her. _She needs to learn,_ Marcus thought. Reluctantly, she took the Senator's arm and walked away.

When they were out of earshot from Marcus, Senator Gracchus quietly said, "You spoke very bravely in the Senate today."

"I wouldn't have spoken at all if the emperor didn't ask."

He nodded in agreement. "Is what you say true?"

She hesitated to answer. Isolde hardly knew this man. He was man of politics; born to manipulate and twist the words around him. Could she trust him? Could she voice her own opinion and not have it come haunting back? Isolde knew she had to choose her words carefully.

"The present situation in the provinces is a well-known fact, Senator. What I said in the Senate, were mere facts. _Undisputable _facts."

She looked at him carefully, and cursed herself for not being able to read his face. He was, indeed a man of politics. The senator's face remained expressionless, as if Isolde's response was nothing new to him.

"Yet you seemed to suggest a treaty. Did you not say it is too late for any more fighting and campaigns?"

_Damn him,_ she thought. He, definitely was a man of politics. She was about to answer, when Senator Gracchus greeted another man. Isolde did not recognize him, and judging by his attire, she decided that he was a man of religion. The two men continued talking in hush voices, leaving Isolde's eyes to wander around. She saw Marcus talking to fellow military commanders, laughing and joking. She narrowed her eyes at him. _At least someone is having a good time,_ she bitterly thought.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Senator Gracchus called her name. Instinctively, she turned around to face the man Gracchus was talking to. "Isolde, I would like you to meet Bishop Germanius."

Isolde nodded her head politely. _Bishop Germanius._ _Where have I heard that name before?_

"You are from the east?" She noted that the bishop's accent was thick, and rough.

"Yes, your grace. From the Black Sea."

He eyed her up and down, to which gave Isolde shivers down her spine. "A Sarmatian beauty indeed."

Isolde half-smiled, pretending to be slightly flattered by his comments. Inside, her stomach twisted in knots. She did not want to continue this façade everyone was playing. However, she forced herself too – for Marcus' sake.

"Senator Gracchus tells me you were posted in Briton before coming to Rome. Tell me, what is Briton like?"

She hesitated to respond. It seemed like everything she did lately always came back to Briton. _Bloody island. Can you just leave me alone?_

"Well…it's a fairly large island. I was posted at Hadrian's wall, so we constantly were faced with the rebels from the north. I wasn't there for very long, so I couldn't tell you much about it."

"Is the weather as beautiful there as it is in Rome, " asked the Senator.

Isolde smirked, "If it's not snowing, it's raining. If it's not raining, it's foggy."

She observed both men. Both did not show any indication of emotion or expression, which made it hard for Isolde to decipher what they were up to. It felt like she was being interrogated for some dirty crime she did not commit.

"Gentlemen, if I may ask…Why all the sudden interest in Briton? Surely conversations about weather in Roman provinces are not a common topic."

They laughed, as if they were trying to brush Isolde off, to which she saw through immediately. They were deliberately avoiding answering her, Isolde thought. Something was going on. And she had a feeling she was going to be dragged in it.

Senator Gracchus took her arm, "Come. Enough about politics. Let us enjoy our dinner."

* * *

Marcus saw her wander off as the night's festivities in the Senator's house were over. He meant to follow, but was stopped by the Bishop. He politely smiled, "Bishop Germanius."

"What a fine beauty."

"Excuse me?"

"No doubt a fine warrior too." He gestured in Isolde's direction.

Marcus smiled in gratitude, "She's one of the best."

The bishop, lost in his own thoughts quietly echoed, "…the best."

"Is there anything I can do for you, your Grace?"

Bishop Germanius looked at Marcus for a moment, as if he was searching for the right words. _Politics_, Marcus thought.

Finally, the bishop slowly, but quietly spoke, "I'm sure you are aware of the barbarians at Rome's doorsteps."

"Yes, I'm very well aware of that. It's a common topic of conversation nowadays."

"The pope has personally requested me to bring his godson back to Rome."

Marcus stood up straight, "Would you like me to escort him back?"

"No, no. That won't be necessary. Your efforts are needed here. But I was wondering…if your Sarmatian would accompany my travels."

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. This was an unusual order. It was not everyday men of high offices requested the services of a particular soldier. But, who was he to refuse an order of a Bishop? "Where does the pope's godson reside?"

"Briton."

It all came together in Marcus' mind. Isolde was posted in Briton before coming to Rome. Of course, he could never forget that. It was in Briton where he first met Isolde – then a young and untamed girl. It was in Briton where Isolde asked – no begged – to travel to Rome and complete her service there. In the end, it all came back to Briton.

"I would have to ask her, your Grace. She would…not be very happy with the idea."

"And why is that?" he asked in an authoritative tone.

"She never told me. All I know, she came begging on her knees to take her away; to bring her to Rome. I never questioned why though. But something happened there, that made her run away."

The Bishop pursed his lips. He didn't expect this obstacle to occur. He expected an easy compliance. He would think of someway to persuade them. _An incentive, maybe_, he thought. Authoritative orders was the last thing he wanted to do. Again, he smiled at the roman soldier and patted his back for reassurance. "We will continue this conversation in the morning. But remember, Primus Pilus, in the end, you and your Sarmatian have no choice. But I don't want to resort to that. I'm sure we can reach a … happy agreement among us all."

Marcus gulped out of nervousness, as the Bishop went to his carriage. Now he was beginning to understand why Isolde hated men like Bishop Germanius and Senator Gracchus. They were men of deception and half-truths. With nothing left to do, he set out in Isolde's direction, trying to figure out a way to tell her of the new mission.

He wandered around the streets of Rome, pondering on the Bishop's words. _What a fine beauty._ Those words still stung in his ears. Marcus, had noticed Isolde's beauty for quite some time now. In fact, he noticed he started observing Isolde more closely than usual lately. He would notice the way she laughed, the way her eyes sparkled, the way she smiled. He found himself always looking for her when she was not by his side. He found himself _wanting_ to spend time with Isolde. When Isolde first walked out in the Roman gown tonight, he was left completely speechless. She looked like an angel; and apparently he was not the only one to notice tonight.

Could it be? Could Marcus be in love? He shook his head. Of course not! _I'm just starting to see what a beautiful woman she's grown into! She's still a warrior – a deadly one._ He kept repeating this inside his head, trying to convince himself that he was not in love – especially with Isolde.

He turned a corner, and found her sitting on the stairs of the house his century was occupying. He stopped walking, hesitating to break her from her thoughts. Instead, he quietly observed her. She looks so peaceful, he thought. He watched her hands as they touched her hair, and how they slowly traced down her neck. He watched as her breath escaped her lips, leaving them slightly parted open. Upon closer observation, he thought she had been crying. But it was hard to tell, because of the lack of light. A sigh escaped his lips.

He _was_ in love with her.

Marcus should have felt happy, but instead it filled him with dread. He couldn't love her! It seemed…impossible. She wasn't even Roman. She had no family, no lineage, no money. But, on the other hand, she was strong-willed, beautiful, deadly…she was a warrior. She was _his_ warrior. At least, that's what he wished for; and he didn't want anybody to change that – not even Germanius.

Not wanting to disturb her, Marcus silently walked away.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and feedback!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

The knife landed in the middle. Again.

His comrades were always baffled at it. For years they would practice and perfect their ability and skill, but he was always better. _Always._ To have the necessary skill to survive was crucial, which is why he would practice day and night. Besides, it occupied his free time. It kept his mind from certain memories and thoughts he would rather forget. To him, a strayed mind was a weak mind. And a weak mind became a disadvantage in the battlefield.

"Tristan, how do you bloody do that?"

He smirked. The young boy, Galahad always asked this question. But he would not tell him, partly for his own entertainment. He merely looked at Galahad and shrugged. Then, ignoring the boy's baffled face, he took an apple from the table and began peeling.

Galahad looked up to Tristan, throughout their years of battle and service together. Tristan was one of the older ones, and Galahad was the youngest. So it was natural for Galahad to admire someone like Tristan. Of course, Galahad had never made it known to Tristan. For he hated anything that wasn't blood…and his hawk.

Deciding to leave Galahad to his pondering, Tristan made his way for the stables. He wasn't a man of words, which was a very known fact around the wall. There were times when he wouldn't utter a word to anyone for days. Yet, his closest friends and his commander, Arthur, could always read him.

At least, when he allowed them to.

Entering the stables, he went to his horse, which gently nudged him; a silent gesture of welcome, to which Tristan gave a light chuckle. Stroking the horse's neck with such care, he gave his remaining apple and watched his horse devour the sweet fruit. Then his mind began to wander. To past friends who died over the years, to glorious moments on the battlefield, to near-death moments, to his remaining friends. To _her._

It was a painful place to remember. It was always painful, and he always tried to find way to make him forget. But he couldn't. He _wouldn't._ He closed his eyes, and imagined the soft locks of her brown hair, and her beautiful hazel eyes, which always seemed to sparkle. He'd imagine her smile, and how it always brightened up the room. He twitched his head, and imagined hearing her soft laughter in the distance. He licked his lips, and would imagine her lips upon his.

It was truly painful for him.

Eventually, he replaced the pain with hate. He began to feel hate and anger. But he wouldn't let those emotions cloud his judgment. So he began to breath, and slowly calmed himself down. He opened his eyes, and let out a silent sigh. He then picked up a brush and began grooming his horse.

It was meditative for him. It had been a long week. The Woads were becoming more aggressive, and more sporadic. There were reports of attacks of traders and merchants on the roads whose destinations was Rome. There were also reports of the Woads crossing over the Wall. Arthur had sent him scouting for any activity. After 4 days, Tristan had found nothing. Fourteen years. He had been under Arthur's command for fourteen years, and he was beginning to feel tired. Tired of the same routine. Tired of Briton. Tired of…_living._ For Tristan, he was still waiting for _the_ honourable death, and so far, he had not found it.

Ever since she left, he found no more reason to live.

_No,_ he thought. _You mustn't think of her. She's dead to you. Dead._

Over and over again, he kept repeating it in his head, hoping it would convince him. Tristan was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he failed to notice a figure enter in the stables.

"What ales you so, brother?"

Tristan looked up, and his eyes fell upon a familiar face. The voice belonged to Dagonet, one of the very few people who heard Tristan utter more than a sentence. He was able to confide to Dagonet, because he understood, and he listened. Dagonet wasn't much of a speaker as well, which also made Tristan feel at ease. For spending an entire day with someone like Lancelot was considered hell for him.

Tristan grunted. It was a gesture of men. _Nothing._

He observed the bigger knight grab a few things from his saddle. He watched as Dagonet spoke very softly to his own horse, and began to exit the stable, leaving Tristan to his thoughts.

"She still haunts me."

It was enough for Dagonet to stop. He turned around and looked sadly, yet knowingly to Tristan. It hurt him to see his friend in such misery and pain all the time. He said nothing in response, hoping that the silent scout would speak more.

Nothing else was said. Tristan returned to his horse. Dagonet stood there, trying to figure the scout out. He had been through it all with him. He was there when they first met. He was there when their love grew. He was there when it disappeared. Dagonet was there for Tristan after she left, and saw him drink away the sorrow.

"I wish I could take away the pain, brother."

Without looking up, he replied, "Give me a battle worth dying for."

* * *

She awoke with a cold sweat above her brow. It happened again. Her past was haunting her in dreams. Dreams of Briton, dreams of her brothers, dreams of him. She thought she could escape it, but she knew she could not. 

Isolde felt deep down, that the time would come when she would return to Briton and face her past. After last night, she felt that it would soon. Briton was hardly a common topic of conversation. To have it mentioned so many times – she took it as a sign.

She arose from her bed, and opened her window. The sky was still dark, and the moon shone brightly in the sky.

_Why._

It was a question that always lingered in her mind. She always questioned herself for leaving, for coming to Rome, for killing…for living.

Living, after all was the hardest part for Isolde. To live with the constant pain of the past, was almost unbearable. Isolde would find ways to try and make the pain go away. She would emerge herself in constant battle, constant training. She would always be with her comrades, drinking and gambling. For every occupied moment for her, meant freedom, no matter how small it was.

Yet no matter how hard she tried, her mind always went back to him. She often thought what he would look like. She'd imagine him being built and tall, with wild hair. She'd imagine him being deadly in battle. Isolde knew it was her fault for leaving. But she had to.

_It was the only way, s_he thought.

Her mind then wandered to Marcus. She noticed his abnormal behaviour over the last few days, yet she would never quite figure out why she felt a shiver down her spine when Marcus looked at her. It seemed so...familiar.

Then her eyes widened with shock.

"No," she whispered.

_He can't be in love with me, _she thought.

Could he?

* * *

The Bishop paced back and forth in his grand office that Pope had graciously given him. His mind was still on the request from the Pope. Retrieving the pope's godson was not a problem for Germanius. However, the fact they lived north of Hadrian's wall proved dangerous. He was a man of God, above all. But, he was still a man. He wanted to live, and one day perhaps, become pope. But this mission was dangerous. Bishop Germanius did not want to die, for he knew God had greater things for him.

He stopped his pacing and looked to his desk, where a single opened letter laid. It was this letter which the Bishop learned the level of danger and risk involved in bringing the boy back. It was with this letter where he wondered if it was even worth the risk. He picked up the letter and reread the very words.

……._The Saxons have grown restless during the last month. They prove more daring each time. Time will only tell when they bring their whole army…._

It was enough. The Saxons were coming to invade Briton. It was just want Rome needed; another pack of barbarians. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was a man of religion, not politics. Yet, it seemed, he acted as both.

This seemed perfectly reasonable in his mind, why the Sarmatian girl needed to go to Briton with him. She lived there, and therefore knew the enemy, would know the quickest routes. It would be easier to get the men posted at the wall to help him with her presence.

"Yes, Yes…" he whispered, deep in thought.

He would make sure he got out of this alive. He would make sure she would go – whatever the cost.

* * *

He'd been pacing back and forth in his bedroom the whole night. Marcus wasn't able to sleep ever since the night before. She'd been on his mind the whole night, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get her out of his mind. It was like if she were some addictive drug. He wouldn't let her go, no matter how hard he tried. 

Marcus knew nothing could come out of it. Even if she did return his love, they wouldn't be able to marry because of their status. The most they could be were casual lovers – but Marcus wanted more. He didn't even know if she had a secret lover, but he didn't care. He was prepared to fight for her.

He looked up at his ceiling and let out a huge sigh. He silently decided to keep his true feelings from Isolde for the time being. _Time will tell all,_ he thought.

In the mean time, he would go see the Bishop later that morning concerning their conversation last night. It was an unusual request, to say the least. Usually Marcus would send one of his legionnaires to carry out orders like this. It was not everyday where a respected bishop would specifically request a member of his legion – especially Isolde. But what could he do about it? He could not defy orders, and neither could she.

He knew she would not be happy with it for two reasons. The first was the obvious. To be ordered to go back to Briton was considered her worst nightmare. Over the years, she had made it known to Marcus and to her comrades about her hate and disgust over the island. No one knew quite why. Everybody just assumed it was because of the dreary weather and the bad wine. The second reason was her pride. Isolde first arrived to Rome with minimal knowledge of healing, and barely had any skill with a sword. She came to Rome – to him – with humility and eagerness. Over the years, her pride grew as her skill increased. Now 13 years later, she had become a fine warrior, with unfortunately a huge ego. The mere fact of being order to _babysit_ a bishop traveling to a place she absolutely detested was not a situation Marcus wanted to face.

Yet, It was inevitable.

* * *

The heels of his boots clicked against the cool marble floor, which echoed along the corridor which led to the Bishop's quarters. He didn't know what to expect from the Bishop. He may have been a may of religion, but he was a man of politics as well. Anything that came out of his mouth was dripped with lies. 

_Choose your words carefully. Otherwise, he'll twist them to his advantage,_ he thought to himself.

He arrived at his door. Marcus took a deep breathe and stood up straight.

His fist collided with the huge oak door and made three large thuds which echoed in the empty hall. Nothing happened at first. No sound came from the other side. It was as if time stood still.

But then he heard a slight shuffle of feet and quickly he stood back so the door could open. A simple pageboy open the door.

He cleared his throat, "The Bishop is expecting me."

The boy looked unaffected and further inquired, "And how may I present you?"

"Primus Pilus, Marcus Gaius of the third Legion."

"One moment please."

The door shut in his face, and he was alone again. The suspense and the wait was agonizing. Each second felt like an eternity, which made his breathing heavy and slow.

The door opened once more, "You may come in."

Marcus stepped in to a lavishly decorated office, filled with relics and images of the new religion. He saw the Bishop at his desk, writing a letter. Marcus stood up straight, waiting for him to address him. The only sound which echoed throughout the room was the scratching of the pen.

Finally, the bishop put down his pen and folded his letter and sealed it with a candlestick. He beckoned his pageboy over, gave him the envelope, and whispered some words in his ear. The pageboy, quickly scurried out of the room and left the remaining two parties in private.

"Primus Pilus,"

Marcus bowed his head, "Your Grace."

"Would you care for a drink?" The bishop motioned his hand towards a jug of wine.

"No, thank you."

It seemed as if the Bishop didn't hear Marcus' respond. He poured two cups anyways. The Bishop took a sip of wine and walked to his window, and remained silent. Marcus knew what he was up to. He wanted him to bring up the topic, for it was his strategy. Doing so, would allow the Bishop the upper hand. It was a sly political move.

Marcus had no choice but to comply. "I'm here about our discussed conversation last night."

The Bishop turned his head slightly, "Have we reached an agreement?"

"I'll offer the services of my other men who are more than fully capable of escorting to Briton. Isolde is needed here."

"With all due respect, she is the only one under your command who had been stationed at Hadrian's Wall in the past. Your other men would be inadequate. If I am to bring the god-son of the pope, the _future_ of the Church back to Rome alive, then I want the best."

"Don't you mean yourself?"

"I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"You want to come back alive."

The Bishop blinked, and Marcus smiled at his small victory. He needed to work this to his advantage. He needed this to work in his favour, for his sake – for Isolde's sake.

"The pope could have sent anyone to fetch the family. _Anyone_. But he chose you. No doubt as a some sort of punishment for excommunicating Pelagius for no good reason – "

"He was making heretical claims to the Church!"

"He did no such thing, and you know it. You want insurance, Bishop Germanius. You want to come back alive."

"That is just a ridiculous theory, Primus Pilus. Let me remind you, my orders come directly from the Pope. To defy me, means to defy him."

"I'm well aware of that, you Grace. But let me ask you: Would you like a resentful escort accompany you during your 4 month journey that I guarantee will make your time absolutely miserable?"

"What is she to you anyways Primus Pilus?"

The question threw him off guard. Marcus tried to find the right words; he wasn't prepared for this. "She is…I mean, Isolde is a member of my legio-"

"You have feelings for her."

Those words felt like an arrow piercing through his heart. "You are gravely mistake-"

"I see it, in your eyes. You care for her so much. I sense it in your voice. You're protecting her, Primus Pilus. I assure you, the samartian is a great warrior. She doesn't need any protecting."

There was no more use at politics. Marcus was not a man of language. The Bishop was able to see through him.

"I don't want to lose her."

"Let it go. Nothing can come between you two. She is not a citizen. She's a slave, at most. My God, she isn't even a Christian."

"You could change all that, Your Grace."

He thought those words would intrigue him, but the Bishop seemed disinterested. So Marcus decided to press on. "Give her the citizenship upon your return to Rome. Convert her to Christianity. And I'll let her go with you."

"She's coming with me regardless. Your attempts are futile."

"Grant me your promise, and I can make you the next Bishop of Rome."

The Bishop put down his cup and looked deep into Marcus' eyes. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but he kept his ground and stared back. It was a tactic that was risky. There were no guarantees, but it was possible.

"How would you do that? You have no power or influence within the Senate, let alone within the Church."

"My family is of noble blood that has deep ties with the Roman Senate. I am personal friends with the Emperor himself. I know most of the cardinals, and most Senators owe me favours. With time, I can make it happen. What man could deny this offer, especially an ambitious one, like yourself? _Bishop of Rome!_ Think of that! You, Germanius, would have the sole control of the Church. Just give me Isolde."

All his playing cards were on the table. It was an offer that the Bishop couldn't refuse. A bold move, on Marcus' part. But he was desperate. He couldn't lose Isolde now. He wanted her, and he wanted her bad.

"Have you…discussed this with your Sarmatian? I would not think she would like to be tossed around like a dog in our web of negotiations."

He was right. If she found out she was being used as a political tool, she'd be furious. But Isolde wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand he was doing this for her; for their future.

"I'll deal with her."

"Very well then."

Those words sealed the agreement. It was done. Now all Marcus had to do was to make sure everything worked out perfectly. He also had to make sure that Isolde would comply with the agreement. He'd imagined her to be thrilled when she heard the news. He'd imagine her telling that he loved her, and wanted to marry her. He'd imagine her reciprocating his feelings. Marcus inwardly smiled.

All was well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

She stormed the halls like a lunatic. She was angry; no, she was beyond that. Her eyes burned with fire. Everybody knew that when Isolde was mad, she was irrational and impulsive, which was why everybody stayed out of her way. She strode down the corridor that led to Marcus' quarters, breathing heavily like a lion, waiting to pounce on its prey.

_How could he?_

It was a question that kept running through her head. She felt hurt and betrayed. How could he let this happen? She had learned of her new mission late last night from a drunken soldier that served Pelagius. She did not believe it at first, but deep down, she knew it was the truth.

She came upon a servant that was standing outside his door, "Out of the way you fool!" she yelled, and nearly shoved the poor boy into the wall.

Isolde nearly kicked the door open, ready to berate her commander for his actions. She looked around and found Marcus reading some maps. He had hardly looked up to the loud commotion she had caused, which only made her even angrier.

She walked to the table and slammed her hands to get his attention. She stared at him with eyes that spelled death. Marcus simply looked at her and brought his attention back to his maps. Isolde gritted her teeth at the disrespect her gave her.

"How could you?" she hissed.

"Could I what?" he replied calmly.

"You- you could have sent someone else! You know I don't want to go back to Briton! You know I hate babysitting! You _know!_ Why-"

"I cannot refuse an order from a higher authority, Isolde. You know that." He was trying to reason with her, but he also knew that reasoning with an angry Isolde often proved to be futile.

"You should have sent someone else! I _don't _baby-sit! I'm better than that. A simple soldier can do that! My skills would be wasted! You could have worked your way around it!"

Marcus sighed and looked at her. Isolde flew her hands up in the air and breathed deeply. It broke his heart that she was so angry with him. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her and he was doing this for her. He wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn't; it wasn't the right time yet. So he had to wait.

And that killed him.

He walked around the table and slowly eyed the flustered Isolde. He gently took her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. He eyed her lips and wanted nothing more to kiss her, but resisted. Even as angry as she was, she was beautiful in his eyes.

"Listen to me Isolde. You will complete this mission. You _will _go to Briton. You _will_ face your past and whatever demons haunt you and be free. You will return to Rome with a heavy burden lifted off your shoulders, and you will be rewarded with freedom."

"I'm not granted my freedom for another year and a half. Briton is a three month journey," she stated.

She stared at him blankly when he said nothing and that gave her suspicion. Isolde looked up to his eyes and stepped away from him Something was very…wrong with him. He was her commander, and she would make sure it would remain that way. Besides, she was still fuming with anger. She blamed the bishop. She blamed Marcus. She blamed Rome. But Marcus was right. She couldn't really do anything. It was now inevitable; Briton was her past, and now it would be her future. She ran her hands through her hair and let out an exasperated sigh. "I need a drink," she muttered.

Without looking at him, she stormed off again.

* * *

He looked at the table that once seated almost fifty Sarmatian knights. It has been so long since Arthur could last remember seeing the table full. Now, almost fifteen years later, it was nearly empty save for six knights. He walked over to the carefully carved round table and let his hands graze over the fine intricate details that had been so meticulously carved in. As he walked around the table, he let his mind wander to each knight that had once occupied each spot.

_Percival. _A man who could find humour even in the darkest hour.

_Kay._ A brave soldier who gave his life to saving a child in danger.

_Erec. _A man with 3 arrows in his chest and managed to fight until his very last breath.

Arthur went on, remembering each and every soldier until at last, he came to the final seat. Remembering this knight was particularly painful for him.

_Caradoc._

His death was a tragic one – one that could have been avoided entirely, if it wasn't for his carelessness and arrogance. Caradoc's death pained Arthur the most because his death led to another tragedy at the wall. Arthur could remember the events of that fateful day as clear as water. He could remember the cries. The tears. _The aftermath._

Arthur closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his fallen brothers. His time for reminiscing the past was over. It was time to focus on the present, and the continuous raids orchestrated by the Woads. With one last look at the table that held so many memories, he left to go find his remaining knights.

He only needed to take one guess to figure out where they would be at this hour. The tavern was always a place where dark moods would be immediately lightened – of course, with the help of some alcohol. Turning the corner, a smile crept on his face as he saw his closest friends laughing and drinking.

He saw Lancelot losing his money to some other soldiers, while trying to woo a lady – much to her dismay.

He saw Bors with two cups, drinking and laughing heartily, with his lover, Vanora, close by his side.

He saw Dagonet, mostly keeping to himself by the bar, nonetheless enjoying the comical scenes of the younger two knights.

Galahad and Gawain were trying their best to woo other bar wenches, thought most of their efforts were proving unsuccessful.

For Arthur, it was hard to imagine that these six men were feared and respected throughout the island. At that moment, he did not see warriors, but ordinary men trying to enjoy life.

But their lives were far from ordinary. Taken from their homes at such a small age, to a foreign land, to face a pre-determined fate; it was no ordinary life at all. One more year, and it would be all over, he thought.

Arthur's eyes scanned the tables, and he noticed there was one knight missing. Unconsciously, he scanned the shadows and corners, for he knew Tristan liked to keep hidden. Unable to locate him, he concluded that he must be in the stables caring for his horse. As Arthur went to turn around, he caught Dagonet's eye. The larger knight raised his cup, silently asking his commander to join him. Arthur slightly lowered his head, responding the same way. _Thanks, but maybe another time._

15 years together, made communicating almost psychic between them. No words needed to be spoken.

Making his way to the stables, he found Tristan doing what he did every night. He watched as the scout groomed his horse with such care and grace, it was almost mesmerizing. Of all the knights, he knew Tristan the least. He was one of the older knights and liked to keep to himself. He smiled sadly as he could recall that fateful day when everything changed with him. It was a day of sadness; a day of death.

"Arthur," the scout called out. Tristan straightened up as he saw his commander at the doorway. After years of friendship, Tristan still looked at Arthur with respect. He walked towards him, knowing that it was time to deliver his report.

"Tristan," Arthur replied. "What news of the Woads?"

"They've been getting more daring ever since Roman posts along the wall have been withdrawn."

Arthur pursed his lips upon hearing this. So it seemed that the Romans have begun losing interest in Briton. "Is there going to be attack on this fort?"

"I doubt it. Their activities have been mostly along the roads, but so far none on the villages. But there hasn't been anything when I was out. There's no strategy to it, Arthur. I can't tell what they want."

Arthur smiled, "They want Briton back. And with the decrease in support of the Romans, they may get their wish." He paused then continued, "I need you to go back and track their attacks. Go along the coastline. The Romans have left their post there, leaving the villagers to set up their own defenses. Make sure they've set up the proper protection."

Tristan said nothing, but simply nodded. He had never defied any orders, for he always welcomed whatever the challenge. He immediately grabbed his saddle and placed it gently on his horse. It was his way of responding to Arthur. _I'll go tonight._

* * *

It was her fourth cup as Isolde downed the last drop of her wine. She aggressively slammed her cup on the table. "More!" she yelled.

Tonight, she would drink until she passed out, and she didn't care what would happen. She _needed_ to rid away the anger and pain she felt in her heart at the moment.

"Don't you think you had enough, Isolde?" Titus asked as he drank from his own cup. He was getting slightly concerned when she finished so quickly. It usually wasn't like her to act like such a … drunkard.

"Tonight is," she stumbled slowly, "an exception, my friend."

"You're fumbling your words. That's not a good sign."

"I'm fine, Titus. No need to worry about me." Again, she took a huge gulp.

"What's happened Isolde? What's wrong? You know you can tell me."

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong! Everything is just perfectly fine! Hey! You there, fill the jug up will you?" she yelled across the room at the server.

Something was definitely off. Titus could sense it, but more importantly he could see it in her eyes. They were filled with sadness and distance, when they were usually filled with such warmth. He watched as the cup continuously kept meeting her lips, and as the alcohol entered her body. He now lost count how much she drank in such a short amount of time and it was beginning to show. Her eyes began to droop and her cheeks began to flush. More noticeably, her movements were slowing down. Titus stood up and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up from the table. "Titus! What are you doing? I'm not done here!"

"Yes you are Isolde. Anymore and you'll be sorry you drank so much."

"Let go of me Titus!" She struggled in his grasp but her attempts were futile. Titus was bigger, stronger and sober, so he ignored her, walking to the stables so they could talk.

Upon reaching his desired destination, he gently dropped her on a pile of hay, to which she immediately almost fell asleep in. "You better tell me what's been bothering you or I swear Isolde, I'll break your legs."

She laughed, but whether in a good or bad way, Titus couldn't tell. "Isolde…"

"I'd rather you break my legs so I don't have to escort his _holiness_ to that wretched island."

"Why do you hate Briton so much? What pain has it caused you?"

"Enough pain and misery," she replied between hiccups. After some contemplation and silence, she decided to explain herself. "I was suppose to be a healer, you know. The sword…wasn't my destiny. I was supposed to give life, not take it."

Titus nodded in acknowledgement, "You are well versed in the healing arts."

She closed her eyes as she remembered that painful day that changed everything. "Someone very dear to my heart died on my watch. Someone I loved very much. I couldn't bear the guilt of not being able to save his life. And I suddenly became afraid of not being able to save the lives of my friends. So…I left; hoping that it would numb the pain. But it never did."

"Oh Isolde." Titus said softly.

"It's been hard, Titus. I wish it would just all…go away."

"Then perhaps the return to Briton will give you peace."

Isolde laughed, "I doubt that Titus. I left without a sound. No letter, no warning. I left…certain people who cared so much for me. And I hurt them by doing so. If they are still alive, I don't think my arrival would be welcoming."

_Tristan._ The name lingered in her mind. The name ripped her heart in two. She closed her eyes and turned on her side and slowly drifted to sleep, his face haunting her dreams.

* * *

**A/N: It's slowly developing. (hopefully) Patience! more to come.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

The Emperor sat timidly in his chair as his general, Ricimer strode back and forth in front of him. After the Senate meeting, he had personally requested Ricimer to present himself at the Palace. Livius was troubled about the Sarmatian's comments. There was no political ulterior motive, no hidden agenda, no lies. Because of that, her words had lingered in his mind. With no solution for his crumbling empire, he called upon Ricimer.

"Is it true then?" he humbly asked. Whenever Livius was in the presence of the General, he felt weaker and inferior.

"The Sarmatian speaks the truth, " he admitted reluctantly. "We have lost the Iberian peninsula to the Visigoths, and we are losing the Greek islands. However there is some good news from the north. General Aetius has won a great battle against Attila the Hun in Gaul. His victory has stabilized our provinces in Gaul for the time being."

"Then I shall award him with great wealth upon his return to Rome," Livius said.

Ricimer pursed his lips. Though it was a great victory for Rome, it threatened his hold on the Emperor. If Aetius was to gain favour with the Emperor, he could potentially turn Livius against him, and in unstable times, that could be deadly. "I would not welcome Aetius with such generosity, your majesty."

"Why not? He has won a great victory for Rome."

"Do you not see? He will use his campaign to gain the throne. It is known he allies with Senator Gracchus. With his victory, the people will hail him as a hero. They will support him if he calls upon it. Be warned, your majesty. They will take what's yours when you least suspect it."

"Aetius is loyal to me. He won't do anything."

Ricimer shook his head and leaned down towards the emperor just close enough to his ear to whisper, "He is loyal to the throne, not to _you._ And he is loyal to himself. He wants Rome for himself."

Ricimer took a step back and smirked. Livius' naivety had made it possible for such easy manipulations. If it weren't for his Germanic background, he'd be sitting on that chair himself. Fortunately for him, the instability of Rome has continued to secure his power through the Western Empire. For him, it was only a matter of time before he gained control of Constantinople

"So what now, Ricimer? You expect me to get rid one of my best generals?"

"I am not telling you to do anything, your majesty. I am merely telling you to be cautious."

"And what of the provinces? Do you need more men for your campaigns?"

"I believe it is time to abandon the lands that are no longer useful to us."

"That is what Senator Flavius suggested. I agree with it. A smaller empire would give us better control."

Ricimer nodded, satisfied that the foolish emperor was so easily persuaded. "We should start with the north. Abandon the British posts, then Gaul."

Livius waved him off, "Yes yes, do what you must General. You will tell Bishop Germanius of our updates. He is to travel to Britain today. He will tell the remaining posts at Hadrian's wall to leave. Now you must excuse me, I must bathe."

* * *

Isolde groaned. She was sore and her head was pounding. As she slightly moved her body, she slowly became aware that she was in her bed. Opening her eyes, which proved difficult because of the light, she saw that she was in her own room, which she quickly concluded that it was Titus who brought her back. She made a mental note to thank him before she left today.

Speaking of which, she was late. "Dammit," she muttered.

It was well past dawn, and she should have her horse saddled by now. She quickly untangled herself from her covers and shot out of bed, much to the protest of her pounding head. In record time, she was out the door, with her armour half on, and her sword in her hand. Fortunately for her, there wasn't anybody at the stable save for the few slaves who were cleaning out the hay. She went to her stall where her horse, much to her surprise was already saddled and ready to go. Isolde smiled, as she knew Titus was behind that, and it saddened her to leave him for such a long time. This mission would be the first one without her comrades, and the thought of it made her slightly lonely.

The commotion outside startled the Sarmatian knight, causing her to drop her sword that she was currently inspecting. Curious, she stepped outside and saw a crowd of people surrounding one man. She saw some of them were throwing pieces of bread at him, while others were protecting him. Upon closer inspection, she recognized the man as Pelagius, the outspoken scholar whose preachings have led the Church to label him a heretic. The crowd was yelling at him, cursing him, while he held his head up with dignity and integrity. Isolde ignored them for she hated involving herself in religion. Religion always led to politics, and Isolde hated that. She figured the crowd would just die off and everybody would move on. As she was turning, something shined in the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she whipped her head around just in time to see a hooded man pull out a dagger and aiming it towards Pelagius. Isolde instantly pulled out a dagger from her boot and threw it in the man's arm, causing him to cry out in pain and drop his own weapon.

Everybody seemed to have stopped as Isolde ran up to the mysterious assassin and dragged him to a wall and pinned him up. "Who are you?" she asked slowly.

The man, whose face could now be clearly seen had a long scar running down the side of his face. Isolde noted his youthful appearance and secretly began to wonder who hired him.

"He who speaks out against the Church is deemed a heretic!" he cried out.

Isolde shoved him harder against the wall, "Wrong answer! Who sent you?"

"I am the Lord's servant, you Pagan! I am doing God's work by ridding the world of his enemies."

"You're despicable," she hissed. She reached down and aggressively pulled out her dagger. The man yelled out in pain, as Isolde dropped him to the ground. She looked around and saw that 2 Roman soldiers had joined the circle that surrounded her. She motioned to them, and they quickly picked up the man. "Arrest him for attempted murder."

Through screams and curses, they dragged the man away. Isolde placed her dagger back in her boot and began to make her way back to the stables. "Wait! Wait!"

She turned around to see Pelagius chasing after her. She took the time to study him. Pelagius was younger than what she expected. He had playful eyes, but his face seemed tired. "I wish to thank you. You just saved my life."

Isolde humble smiled, "By the looks of it, you're not well liked in Rome."

"No, no I'm not. Unfortunately there are certain individuals in the Senate would have already put a price on my head. And the Church is in full support of them."

"I'm…not sure I follow."

"I've been excommunicated by the church, my child. And now…they want me to leave the city. But I guess that's not good enough for some people."

Isolde cursed under her breath. Roman politics; it was getting out of hand. "Do you need protection? I can ask some of the men to escort you to the border at least. I'd do it myself, but I leave for Britain at high noon."

"Briton?" he asked with astonishment.

"I'm to escort the very man who condemns you, to Hadrian's Wall," Isolde said with distaste.

"Hadrian's Wall…" he muttered, though Isolde thought he was talking to himself rather than her. He looked up and stared straight into her eyes with such clarity and conviction, it made the Sarmatian shiver. It was no wonder half the Senators were scared of him. "Tell me, do you know if Artorius Castus is still stationed at the wall?"

Isolde's eyebrows raised at the sound of the name. She hadn't heard his named whispered or mentioned in such a long time that it almost seemed foreign. But she knew, deep down that she could never forget such a gentle person. "To the best of my knowledge, he's still there."

Hastily, Pelagius began rummaging through his robes until he pulled out a simple scroll that was sealed in red wax. He handed it to Isolde, "If you see him, please deliver this to him."

With reluctance, Isolde took the scroll out of the scholar's hand and nodded to him. "Whatever you do," he continued, "don't let the bishop know you carry that letter. It is of utmost importance. And please don't tell Artorius I'm in danger. I wouldn't want to worry him"

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. _I do one nice deed and I'm getting myself entangled in a political game._

* * *

_The Bishop of Rome,_ Marcus thought. He couldn't believe he made that deal with Germanius. It was completely impulsive, not to mention impossible for Marcus to fulfill his promise. As he walked along the halls of the Emperor's palace, he was trying to find a way out of his problem. It was near damn impossible for Germanius to succeed the current pope. First he'd have to influence the cardinals, eliminate the other candidates and his most difficult problem – getting rid of the current pope. He stopped walking and let out a huge sigh. This was going to be _impossible._

Unless….

Marcus picked up his pace, looking for the very person who could fix this mess. Making a turn, he ran into a slave, to which he hastily asked where the Emperor was.

Giving a low bow, he humbly replied, "He is taking a bath, my lord. Would you like me to take you to him?"

Marcus waved him off, and continued down the hall where the Emperor's private room was located. He had been there once or twice before, where he had the privilege to spend some personal time with him. Rumours had sparked that Marcus had become the Emperor's secret lover, and that he was plotting to murder the Emperor's wife. They were all lies, though. Everybody who knew Marcus knew better than to listen to such common gossip.

Marcus approached the door and told another slave to make his presence known to Livius. He stood up straight, and dusted off his armour, while he waited.

The door opened, and he caught a glimpse of the emperor of the Western Empire stepping out of the water and into his chamber. The slave who opened the door bowed down low, acknowledging the rank of Marcus. He held his head up high, as if complimented by the sudden recognition of power and greatness and strode confidently into the Emperor's chamber, ignoring the lowly existence of a slave.

"And what brings you to my private chambers, soldier?" spoke a voice behind some drapery. The figure emerged from behind the lavish purple drapes, and Marcus quietly observed Livius. He was short in stature who was timid when it came to speaking in front of the senate, but loved the ridiculous lifestyle of a patrician. Marcus sometimes wondered if the Western Empire was better off with Livius dead.

But he kept that to himself, of course.

Marcus cleared his throat, preparing himself for the worst possible scenario. "I've come to you…for a great personal favour."

The ruler of the Western Empire arched his eyebrow in intrigue. "Oh? What favour do you think I can grant you, if I choose to do so at all?"

He inwardly smiled. Livius loved it. He loved the power, the respect, the fear. He loved being looked up upon, as if he were a god. He looked at Marcus, and he could the fear and desperation in his eyes; and Livius absolutely loved it.

"I come to you with great humility and humbleness. But I have found myself trapped in a corner and I cannot escape. And it is only you who can help me." He paused slightly, but then continued. "The matter concerns Isolde of Sarmatia."

"A simple servant? You come to me regarding matters of a flea?"

"The situation is much more complicated than that, I assure you. I have come to ask you to release her from her service from the Roman military and grant her Roman citizenship. She has less than 2 years left." Marcus cast his eyes down, silently accepting defeat. It was an utterly stupid idea to as the Emperor of such a trivial matter.

"Why?" Livius asked, "what benefit will it serve me?"

Marcus slumped his shoulders. He has failed to think of a reason beforehand. Of course it wouldn't have benefited him. Losing Isolde was almost equivalent to losing at 10 good and abled men. "It would benefit you personally," he spurted out desperately.

"Me? How?"

"Her scouting skills are impeccable. She could sniff out your most dangerous enemies…in the senate, perhaps. She could stop any assassination attempt that could put your life in danger. Release her, and she could prove useful to you. Let her serve you and you alone."

"If I release her, she could leave the city."

"Not if she's married to a Roman citizen. Then she's bound to her husband."

The emperor narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "You want to marry her, don't you Primus Pilus?" He lightly chuckled, "You'd have to do better than that, my friend."

The soldier silently accepted defeat. He would now need to find a way to make Germanius the next bishop before his return, and that was damn near impossible.

"If I grant you this favour Primus Pilus, you are forever indebted to me – you _and_ your wife-to-be..and perhaps your sons and daughters. You would all be indebted to me," the emperor suddenly said. "It would be longer than a silly 15 year service to the military. You would answer my every call and obey my _every_ command."

Livius spoke the last part slowly, stressing each and every word making Marcus know of his intentions. If the solider wanted his help, he would give it…for a price, of course. Marcus looked up to his superior, where he suddenly felt small and insignificant. Whether he dealt with the bishop or the emperor, he would somehow, someway be always within their grasp. Either way, he was selling his soul. He wanted it so bad he could almost taste victory.

"You are my emperor. It is my duty to serve your every need." Marcus stood up straight and saluted Livius in the traditional Roman salute, sealing his fate…and Isolde's as well.

The emperor knowingly smiled in satisfaction.

**Don't forget to review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**

* * *

**

Chapter 6:

_She took the needle and thread, and angrily jabbed it into his skin, which made him slightly grunt. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was enough for Arthur to send him to the healer's quarters. She deliberately stitched his wound up rather aggressively. But if he felt any sort of pain, he certainly didn't show it. "That's what you get for being so stupid."_

"_If it means spending at least an hour with you undisturbed, then you may call me anything you want," he mused._

_Though he rarely spoke, the times he did made Isolde blush. Rather than embarrassing herself, she continued to work diligently on his wound. Delicately she made sure each stitch was perfectly in place. Healing, Isolde had learned was a fragile art form that only the most patient and diligent individuals could pursue. She aspired to be like her mentor and teacher, Brangaine who was revered throughout the island. Perhaps, one day when her service was completed, she would go back to Sarmatia and become a revered healer among her people._

_As she cut the thread, Isolde took a jar of salve which smelled of mint yet looked like a disgusting paste of brown and green. She took a small amount and began to gently smooth it over Tristan's wound. All of a sudden, Tristan grabbed her wrist which caused her to suddenly look up. "Am I hurting you?" she asked in a worried tone._

_He lightly chucked and pulled her closely to him so he could smell the faint scent of lavender on her neck. He grazed his lips on her neck, to which she lightly gasped at. "Tristan…" she whispered._

_She gently pulled away and looked into his eyes. She couldn't help but faintly smile. They had not known each other for very long; six months at most. Most of their encounters were very brief, as if they were forbidden lovers, sharing stolen moments among their friends. Though she was just a girl, she was sure she was in love._

"_Do you care for me Tristan?" she asked softly._

_He touched her hair, then slowly to her jawline and neck until her took her hands and kissed it. "Foolish girl. Don't you know I would go to hell and back for you? Don't you that I'd face a thousand woads for you?" He stood up and placed gentle kisses on her neck until he finally stopped at her ear. "My Isolde…I would love no other but you."_

She bolted upright covered with a cold sweat. She had a knife in hand, expecting some sort of intruder in her quarters. But there was nothing. Nothing but the occasional creaking from the floors of the ship. Satisfied there was no threat, Isolde let down her guard and let out a huge sigh. The dreams were getting worse. No, they weren't dreams, but memories. Each time she closed her eyes memories of her past would resurface; each more vivid than the last.

"Maybe it's the sea sickness," she said to herself.

She had left Rome almost four days earlier and now embarked on a ship sailing to Massillia in Gaul. It had been absolute hell for her to travel with such a pretentious man like the bishop. Their conversations were often arguments about which were the best routes to take. Isolde wanted to get to Briton as fast as possible so she could get rid of him. The bishop, like the royal arse he was wanted to take frequent breaks, often claiming exhaustion.

She placed her dagger by her hip, and wrapped a cloak around her. If she couldn't go back to sleep, she might as well use the fresh air. Grabbing her sword on her way out, she went out onto the deck and gazed at the stars.

Isolde let out a huge sigh and whispered, "Why are you haunting me so? Why can't you just go away and let me be?"

She paused, hoping some divine force would give her some answer.

But nothing came. Only the swirls and howls of the wind came and went. Unsatisfied she kept talking to no one in particular, "I had my reason. I had my reason. It was one of the most difficult decisions in my life. One that I often wondered whether it was the right one. You cannot hold that against me. Hasn't the pain I've suffered for enough for you? Why must you haunt me?"

"I certainly hope you're not going crazy already."

Isolde whipped around, hand immediately on her dagger. When she saw it was the bishop, she let her guard down. But not completely.

"Your Grace," she said startled, "you should be resting. We dock tomorrow and I don't anticipate stopping until it is dark again."

He lightly chuckled, as if he was mocking her. "Foolish child, you really do underestimate my endurance. I am not a weak old man you think I am."

"I would never think of anything which insults your character, Your Grace."

"I used to be in military once upon a time ago. I know of the hardships of travel."

She narrowed her eyes. "Then you should know that we should not waste time in unsafe lands."

"Unsafe? You are mistaken. Gaul is a Roman province, and Germania as well. We will be well protected by our auxiliary troops."

It was now her turn to laugh. "Either you've spent too much time on her knees praying to a wooden cross or you're just getting old. Gaul is full of rebels who want their country back. The men stationed in the provinces don't have loyalty to Rome. They are loyal to themselves. Half of them don't care about a bloody bishop parading through the province. Though they'll care about the gold you carry. Yes, Germania may have been conquered but I assure you, no bloody Germanic would ever offer their life for a Roman. The longer we delay our travel, the more danger you put us in."

The bishop frowned in disapproval. Whether he was offended by Isolde's comments he did not deliberately show it. "You are cleverer than most soldiers I've encountered in the past. It will be a great to loss to Rome when you will be discharged."

"Rome's not done with me for another 2 years."

"Maybe not," he said.

_Maybe not?_ What bloody hell is that suppose to mean, she thought.

"What are your plans after your discharge?" Germanius asked.

Isolde hesitated to answer. Truthfully, she did not know herself. There were thoughts of staying with the military, but there were also thoughts of going home, if home was still alive.

"I don't know. Travel. Live in the wild. Work in a brothel. Who knows," she said jokingly.

Germanius pursed his lips, noting his disapproval at Isolde's answer. "I don't believe it is God has such a plan for you."

She arched an eyebrow and asked mockingly, "And pray tell, Your Grace, what does he have planned for me?"

"We are all but players in an ever changing world. There are forces at work that will be beyond your understanding. I think God will pave you a road that will help and further his work and teachings," he replied in a knowing smile.

* * *

Today was a particularly bad day for Dagonet. It was raining, and the cold winds sent shivers right to his bone. The knights has just come back from their mission – a weekly patrol along the wall and to nearby villages. It was just another routine trip. Unfortunately, the youngest knight, Galahad had fallen ill from the days of cold weather. The foolish boy had failed to mention anything to Dagonet, thinking it was just a cough. However, he soon broke out in a fever and was now in bed, miserable as ever. Dagonet had spent most of the night trying to break his fever, making sure his brother in arms was comfortable.

He sighed and looked out the window. It was nearing high noon, indicating he had overslept. He eyes then drifted in the streets, where he saw some of Bors' children carrying apples and flowers for their mother. He smiled at the sight, secretly hoping one day he'd have a beautiful wife with beautiful children.

As he stepped into the tavern for his usual meal, he saw Bors in a rather somber state. The knights were usually like this when the life of a knight was in danger. Dagonet clasped his hand on his shoulder in mutual understanding. "He'll make it Bors. Galahad's a strong one."

Bors grunted, preferring not to talk, in fear of cursing the poor boy's life.

It was quiet in the tavern. Dagonet assumed they were all worried over Galahad. Even the few Roman soldiers who knew the knights were particularly quiet today – so quiet is was almost unbearable. As Dagonet observed them, he noted that they almost froze in time when Tristan walked in. They did not greet him, nor stare at him. It was almost as they if recoiled in fear.

Tristan quietly sat across from Dagonet and began peeling an apple so methodically it almost put Dagonet to sleep. As usual, Tristan did not say anything, but he noted something different about him. Alas, his suspicion was confirmed when Tristan threw his knife on the table rather aggressively.

Bors stopped eating and looked at him, "What's the matter Tris?"

"Bloody Romans don't know nothing about respect for the dead." He menacingly glanced over at the Roman soldiers.

"What happened? Were they pissing on their graves again? I"ll cut out their throats," threatened Bors.

Tristan grunted, "I took care of it." He looked up at Dagonet and muttered, "It's today."

Dagonet gave a knowing look. Indeed, today was a particularly bad day.

* * *

Tristan walked to their cemetery where his fallen brothers were resting. Blood was boiling through his veins. He wanted to kill those damn drunken Romans when he saw them mockingly sparring with Caradoc's sword. It was a huge dishonour in his eyes. He had made sure he taught them a lesson before letting them go. No, he would not spill their blood – for Arthur's sake. But if he had it his way, they'd be dead before they knew it.

He walked over to Caradoc's grave and made sure his sword was properly in place. Satisfied, he kneeled before his dead brother and silently sent a prayer to his gods.

Today was the day.

Today was the day that everything changed. He could still remember the very moment the arrow ripped through Caradoc's rib. He could remember himself carrying Caradoc to the healer's quarters where Isolde was. The look on her face would haunt him forever.

Tristan shook his head trying to rid of the memories, but he couldn't let them go.

_Brangaine hugged Isolde tightly, whispering everything would be alright. She had done everything she could to save him, but the fever would not break._

_Tristan was there the whole time. He had refused to leave Caradoc. He had refused to leave Isolde. He tried to console her, but she shut him out, saying nothing to him._

_It was only when he left the room because Arthur requested him did he really feel the pain and guilt of it all. It was only then did he hear Isolde scream and cry out in agony._

_And it tore him apart._

No, he told himself. He wouldn't allow himself to live in the past. But the memories wouldn't leave him.

_She stayed curled up by his body for nearly a day. She refused to eat, speak or move. Nobody – not even Tristan could get through to her. They all knew she was mourning, for they all could hear the muffled sobs at night. _

_Tristan couldn't bear it anymore. He knelt down before her. "Isolde, please look at me," he pleaded._

_Nothing._

"_My love," he tried again, "You are unwell. Let me help you."_

_Her eyes focused on him. He took this as a good sign, so he took her hand and continued. "My love, we're all worried about you. Come and eat. Then go to sleep."_

_In a quiet whisper she said, "It's my entire fault."_

"_It isn't anyone's fault. The arrow was too deep."_

"I could have done something. Something else could have been done."

"Nothing you could have done would have saved him. You cannot blame yourself."

"_What good a healer am I if I cannot save my own brother? I murdered him!" she cried out._

_Tristan picked her up and held her tightly. "You mustn't blame yourself Isolde. Caradoc would not want it."_

_She nestled in his chest and began sobbing, which made him hold he tighter. "My love, how can I take the pain away from you?"_

_She brought looked up to his face and kissed his nose, "You can't. It will be my pain to bear for as long as I live. Promise me that you won't lie on my table dying. Promise me I won't kill anyone I love. Promise me I won't murder you."_

He stroked her hair, "Hush now Isolde. Do not think those things."

_As Isolde fell asleep crying, Tristan carefully brought her back to his room, where they lied together in bed like a pair of young lovers._

**A/N: A somewhat mushy chapter, but I guess it's best if I let you in on their past - just a little. Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think!**

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7:**

The journey had been relatively quiet for the past month. Bishop Germanius believed God had blessed him with such good weather. Isolde scoffed at his remark. It was true they had not seen rain in a long time, but Isolde knew how nature worked. It was only a matter of time before their luck ended. In the meantime, they were ahead of schedule, reaching Lugdunum almost a week earlier than previously anticipated. Despite Isolde's persistent to keep traveling, the Bishop seemed to think otherwise.

"We need to keep traveling. The longer you stay, the more danger you put us in," she protested.

"I think we _all_ deserve a least a day's rest. We are ahead of schedule anyways. We can use this time to replenish our supplies and let the horses rest."

"It is not safe here, Your Grace. I'd rather travel to a smaller village and rest there."

The Bishop waved her off, "My orders are final. We stay until dawn."

It was pointless to argue with such a narrow-minded fool, she thought. Saving her breathe, she strode out to find some tavern to drink away her frustration.

As she walked down the streets, Isolde recalled the stories Titus has told her about this city in its glorious days. After its conquest almost three hundred years ago, Lugdunum had become a central port between Rome and its northern provinces resulting in many prosperous years. Unfortunately, as Isolde learned, the struggle to keep the empire together had led to Lugdunum's demise. It was no longer the affluent city it once was – at least in Rome's standards. Isolde gazed upon a table of four men huddled together talking in secret. She pursed her lips. They were neither Roman nor native to Gaul. She'd recognize the hilts of those swords anywhere. They were Germanics; big, burly men who were ruthless in battle. Consciously, she placed her hand on her own sword which was securely strapped to her hip and slowly sat down to a table next to them. One of the men caught her eye and immediately beckoned the other men to stop talking.

This only made Isolde feel more unease. She turned towards their direction, her gaze focused behind their heads as if she were looking for someone. She noticed they began talking in hush sounds and could barely make out their conversation. Unfortunately, it was in their native tongue.

Feeling unsatisfied she took one last look at them and left the four men to their secrecy.

* * *

The room was filled with voices of Rome's most influential and noble men. Whether they were scheming to overthrow the Emperor, or discussing the night's festivities, Marcus couldn't be sure. He scanned the Senate slowly, instantly spotting Senator Gracchus; an old man who made no effort to show his displeasure with the Emperor's handling of Rome. He saw Senator Flavius: Young and wild at heart to the dismay of his wife. It was rumoured he had a habit of visiting the brothels at nighttime.

His eyes lit up when his gazed fell upon his old friend, General Aetius. An accomplished soldier, Aetius was once Marcus' commander in their early years. The years had battle had greatly aged the older man. Battle scars were visible on his arms, each one permanently reminding Aetius of his duty and love to Rome. Marcus grabbed the forearm of his old friend and mentor as a means of respect. "General."

"Ah, there are no formalities between us, Marcus," replied in a low and humble tone.

Marcus broke in a smile, "My dear Flavius Aetius. It has been too way since my eyes have gazed on your face." He noted the dark circles and small wrinkles underneath the General's eyes. "How long has it been, old friend? I must not have seen you since your campaign in Gaul begun nearly five years ago."

"It felt a lot longer than that," He let out a huge sigh. "My stay in Rome will be a longer one this time."

"I would hope so, Flavius. Your victory over Attila is all anybody talks about in the streets. You will be hailed as a hero, and I'm certain that Livius will greatly reward you."

Aetius snorted. "Between you and me Marcus, I don't give a damn whether I get gold or land from that bastard."

Marcus was hesitant to respond. Those who publicly spoke ill of the emperor usually put their lives at great risk. Livius may have been a stupid ruler, but he had a short temper and who often punished his political enemies. "Why the harsh words, Flavius? Surely you have harbour no ill feelings towards him?"

Flavius directed his younger counterpart behind a column so they could speak more privately. "You must not mistake my words for hatred Marcus. I am loyal to Rome and her people. I want nothing more to see Rome rise from her ashes and take back the lands we've lost to the barbarians."

"And I too," Marcus replied.

"You are a close friend of Livius. You _know_ he is incapable of ruling without that Germanic scum by his side. Rome is falling under his hands. The Eastern emperor won't even recognize him as the leader of Rome." He paused, unsure of how to continue. "There have been whispers that the capital will be moved to Ravenna. It's an absolute ludicrous idea. It's why we've been summoned today; we are to vote on the fate of Rome."

"And what will you do?" Marcus was not a senator, so any influence to change Rome' fate was not in his hands.

"I will object of course! If the capital is moved, it will be seen as a sign of weakness and cowardice. I will not let Rome burn a second time."

"And if Rome goes to Ravenna? What will you do then?"

Aetius pursed his lips a line and gave Marcus a hard look. "I pray to God it does not come to that. If the vote is passed, Livius will have gained a new enemy to deal with."

* * *

Isolde found herself among the Roman soldiers who had been traveling with her, drinking and gambling. For most of the journey, she had kept to herself. She would either be scouting or arguing with the Bishop. Tonight was one of the first nights she had the chance to observe them. Taking a gulp from the ale, she noticed that most of her traveling companions had very lusty hands over the local barmaids.

_Men,_ she thought. _You give them ale and women and they'll be happy for an eternity._

As for herself, Isolde felt uneasy. Since their arrival in the city, a nagging voice in the back of her mind told her it was dangerous to spend the night here. They ought to have traveled a little further and camped outside a village or town. Even though they were surrounded by locals and soldiers, she felt exposed.

"You're the Sarmatian escorting the bishop to Briton?" a voice behind her asked.

Isolde turned around and saw a man of dark brown hair in full Roman armour. She recognized him as one of the men in her company to Briton. She noted his light brown eyes which were rimmed with golden specks which seemed to dance with the fire. She inclined her head.

"You're a legend among the troops," he continued.

"A legend?" she repeated. "I'm sorry to disappoint but my life is far too boring to call legendary."

"The men," he gestured to the soldiers over his shoulder, "they speak of tales during your campaigns in Iberia and Greece. Marcus Gaius is your commander?"

She nodded.

"They speak of the time you single handedly, with a broken wrist fought off 4 Visigoths twice your size. They recall the story of when you took down a man - no a giant, with just your sword and dagger. They tell the tale of how you charged into a scouting party, killed them all and came out with just a scratch on your cheek. You mean to tell me they're just bedtime stories for my children?"

She heartily laughed. "I'm afraid so Legionarii. Your men have greatly exaggerated those stories to create something I am not."

"Then tell me what the real Sarmation warrior is like."

She decided she liked this man. He was good company to talk to that didn't involve sex or gambling. She smiled, "Well, Isolde of Sarmatia _did_ fight single handedly 4 Visigoths in Iberia. But, they were unarmed and drunk. One could hardly call it a fight. I did take down a man almost thrice my size. But my good friend Titus had severely wounded him before I delivered the final blows. As for the scouting party…I _did_ come out with just a scratch on my cheek." She looked at him with intent and took another gulp of her ale before finally adding, "only because they had kidnapped me and bound me to a tree. I was rescued that night by the men."

The soldier laughed out loud, "and to think I was in the presence of the next Aetius! Forgive me, Isolde. Upon hearing your confession, your legendary status has dwindled to nothing but the smoke of a burnt candle. Nevertheless, I am honoured to meet such a foreign beauty. My name is Maximus Junius."

She tipped her cup in response, "It is a pleasure to converse with you. So was it your own choice to come to Briton? Or were you horribly dragged to this dreaded journey?"

"Isolde of Sarmatia, I would rather be in bed beside my wife's warm body and in the company of my children than to be in unstable lands."

"And I, Maximus Junius would rather face 4 armed and sober Visigoths than to escort the Bishop to Hadrian's Wall."

"Well, look on the bright side, we might meet Artorius Castus," he said eagerly.

Isolde arched an eyebrow but did not say anything. She only knew him when he barely fifteen; unfit to fight and unfit the rule. She wondered what kind of man he was now. She wouldn't listen to the legends that were whispered hear and there about him. Legends were just stories that were too farfetched from the truth. No, she would wait and see the man in flesh and blood.

"And his famous Sarmatian knights," she finally added, even though there was one in particular she was thinking about.

She turned her head to look for a barmaid to refill her cup when her eyes locked on with an all too familiar face. It was the same four Germanic men she had seen earlier in the day. Apparently the bearded man recognized her as well. He said something to his companions and gestured his head towards her direction, making Isolde feel slightly uncomfortable.

_They know who I am and why I'm here,_ she thought.

She continued to observe them, noting that two of the men had abruptly left, leaving the remaining two in a hushed secrecy. "Maximus, how fast you can get the men and be saddled?"

"Not too long, I don't think. We're not a huge party and most of the men know not drink until they pass out while on duty."

"Then go and meet in the stables. Have the Bishop's carriage ready."

"Why? Is he in danger?"

Her eyes never left the table as she got up with her hand of her sword. "I believe so."

* * *

She ran in record time to the Bishop's quarters. Inspecting the door, she silently thanked that it wasn't broken down yet. Those four men were plotting something, which gave Isolde every reason to believe their lives would be in danger. Very loudly she banged on the door with the hilt of her sword.

_Thud Thud Thud._

She waited, but no answer came. She tried again, this time more aggressively.

She waited, and still nothing.

She took a deep breathe to calm herself down. _Insufferable selfish bastard,_ she thought.

One more time, she banged on the door until she heard scuffling on the other side. The door opened slightly, and the head of Horton, the Bishop's secretary popped out. "The bishop asked not to be disturbed tonight. He is exhausted from the journey. It will have to wait until the morning, Isolde."

That was it. Something inside her snapped. She was done with the pretentious bastard who called himself a Man of God. She grabbed a dagger that was hidden in her armour above her tailbone and dangerously pointed its blade to him. "I don't give a damn about his weariness of travel. If he wants to live to see the morning light, you'll wake him up and be at the stables. Or if you're too cowardly to wake him, I'll _gladly_ do it myself," she threatened.

The poor man looked as if was ready to soil his pants. A helpless whimper came from his throat as he ran to wake the bishop.

As Isolde waited, she kept trying to think of the possibility of an attack. Was it just four men, or were there more? Would they have sabotaged the horses? Or did they poison the drinks? Did they want to kill for the sake of killing or did they want a ransom?

There were too many questions that were unanswered. All Isolde knew was that her instinct was telling her to leave the city – and her instinct, for the most part was always right.

After what seemed like an eternity, Germanius and Horton stepped out fully dressed with their belongings, with the Bishop looking particularly displeased with the disturbance.

"Why are we leaving?"

"Because I told you it was unsafe to spend the night here."

"I am perfectly safe," he protested.

"Tell that to the Germanic blade that plans to cut off your head," she retorted.

She grabbed both men by the forearm and quickly ran to the stables to see Maximus readying Germanius' carriage.. She smiled at him; she knew he was a reliable solider she could count on. "Do not leave his side, Maximus. Be alert. Be smart. I'll meet you outside the city gates."

He gave her a curt nod, instantly telling the other men to be on guard. Isolde went to her own horse, which was growing restless as he sensed the tension in the atmosphere. She did a quick check on herself to make sure her weapons were secure, her bow tight and arrows were plentiful. She then mounted her Sarmatian horse and gently stroked his mane to calm her nerves. Isolde bent down and whispered in her companion's ear, "Be on guard my friend. Danger lurks in the shadows."

She led her horse through the city, deliberately passing by the tavern. The four men were absent from their occupied table. She kicked her horse into a gallop and quickly maneuvered her way outside the city walls. She saw Germanius' carriage and the dozen or so men that accompanied him waiting off the roads. She gave a small smile, knowing it was probably Maximus who decided to hide off the main road.

She quickly galloped towards them and immediately Germanius stuck his head outside his window, "You still have no explained to me why we are leaving a perfectly safe city."

She tightened her grip on her reins in frustration. "There will be an attempt on your life tonight. I am sure of it. It's time for you, Your Grace, to start letting me do my job. And my job is to _protect_ you from any danger. And that means you better start listening to me if you value any part of your life."

She turned to Maximus, "We won't stop until I say we do, is that understood?"

He nodded.

Isolde then led her horse to the front of the party, when she heard a snap in the forest. She wasn't the only one who heard it. Maximus turned towards the direction, sword at hand. He motioned the soldiers to surround the carriage. Isolde grabbed her bow and notched an arrow.

"It's pitch black. How can you shoot?" Maximus asked.

Isolde smirked at his question. She slowly scanned the forest, focusing on the shadows, listening to the wind. A branch snapped again, and she suddenly let loose her arrow.

A scream broke the silence and Isolde knew the arrow met its target.

All of a sudden a small group of men poured out from the shadows of the trees with swords and shields. She was quick to spot out the same four men at the tavern. She notched another arrow and let it loose.

Maximus was quick to react and charged towards the group. She mentally noted he fought with passion and ferocity. He blows were aggressive and powerful as well as deadly. She looked and saw that the carriage was relatively unharmed. There were a few arrows embedded on its side, but none of the assassins had made its way to the Bishop.

Withdrawing her own sword she charged at her enemy, bringing her sword down to kill off the danger. As her sword met the chest of one man, another had knocked her off her horse and onto the ground.

She whipped her head around to see an all too familiar face. She wickedly smiled. "And here I was beginning to think we could have been friends," she mocked at him.

He snarled at her comment as he lunged towards her. She easily blocked his sword and decided to aim low near his knees. The Germanic man continued to swing with brute strength, which Isolde maneuvered and blocked. He would tire out soon, she knew.

The man's lunges became slower and Isolde took the opportunity to parry his blows with short quick thrusts. She twirled her sword in her hand and lunged at him, then quickly encircled him before slicing his calves. Taking out a long dagger from her boot, she moved around him again, knocking the sword out of his hand. She jabbed the dagger underneath the armpit, where armour was most vulnerable and aimed her sword at his neck.

"Who hired you?" she asked menacingly as she drove the dagger deeper into his flesh.

He seethed in pain, "We mercenaries have no allegiance."

"Everybody has a loyalty. I'll let you answer one more time before I slit your throat."

Isolde then began to slowly cut through the man's skin. "Ri-Ri-Ricimer," he struggled to say, "We had orders only to sc-scare y-you. The bi-bishop wasn't me-meant to be ha-harmed."

Satisfied, she let the sword slice through his throat and let his body fall to the ground.

She looked around to see all the Germanic mercenaries dead. She scanned her own men and saw no fallen comrades, but only minor injuries. She wiped the blood off her blades and placed them back in their respective places.

She went straight to Maximus who was mounting his horse, "You alright?"

"Yea, I'm fine. The Bishop's fine. Startled and scared, but fine."

"Good. Have the men stay near the carriage for the night and have three men stationed behind it. We leave _now._"

Isolde mounted her own horse and started a gallop, setting the pace of the remainder of the journey. Maximus paced his horse beside her, "Who were the attackers?"

She glanced over at him, "Greedy mercenaries. Saw a carriage, saw an entourage and thought they could make some money."

As Maximus slowed his pace to stay closer to the group, Isolde sped up to collect her own thoughts. Ricimer? Why would Ricimer be behind the attack? It made absolute no sense to Isolde.

She grunted. She was in the middle of a huge political entanglement that she felt was getting more complicated by the second.

* * *

**A/N: Suspense! Conspiracy! Ha. The Plot thickens!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

Isolde found it difficult to focus as she knew they were getting closer to the Wall. The bishop had sent a soldier to ride ahead to alert Arthur and his knights on their arrival. The rider had returned that night, only for Isolde to find out that Arthur would escort the Bishop when they were nearly half a day's ride away from the wall.

Which meant the inevitable was coming. And she was far from ready to face it.

The remainder of their journey was particularly uneventful. The bishop has stopped arguing with Isolde ever since the attack by the mercenaries. He had not even protested when Isolde picked up an old peasant to be used as a decoy. This meant that the Bishop was now dressed in full armour riding next to her.

"It must be so wonderful for you to be back," he said.

"Indeed it is," she half-heartedly replied.

"Do you think there will be any more danger until we reach the wall?"

"Possibly. The locals talk of recent attacks by the rebels. Though they stay away from villages, they tend to attack travelers and merchants on the roads."

The bishop didn't say anything else, to which Isolde was grateful for. It was wonderful not to bicker with the narrow-minded fool anymore. Unconsciously, Isolde's mind went back to the night of the attack by the Germanic mercenaries. She hadn't told the Bishop that Ricimer was behind the attack, partly because she was also confused with this fact. Did the Bishop and Ricimer have a falling out? Were they even allies? Did they even know each other at all?

More importantly, why would Ricimer only want to scare the Bishop?

There were too many unanswered questions that drove Isolde mad. She took a quick glance at the bishop and bit her lip, unsure of how to approach him.

Carefully and slowly she asked, "There is a matter which concerns you that I don't fully comprehend."

The bishop arched an eyebrow. "And which matter is that?"

"Why…a Germanic general would want hire mercenaries to scare a Roman Bishop? I keep playing it in my head over and over again, but nothing seems to add up."

"I'm not sure I follow."

_Stupid prick._ "They didn't attack for money. They attacked because they were told to by a great general who controls the emperor with strings. What I don't understand is why."

He stopped his horse and turned towards her, "Where did you learn this?"

"On the night of the attack. Before I slit the bastard's throat."

He pursed his lips. "You do not withhold that kind of information from me," he said rather angrily.

She coldly narrowed her eyes, "Don't patronize me. If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead already."

"Excuse me?"

They had now fully stopped in the middle of the road, facing each other while the other soldiers were trying not to eavesdrop.

"You heard me. If you wouldn't be so damn arrogant in those bloody Christian robes of yours -."

"Mind what you say next," he spat out.

"I don't care if you're God himself," she mocked.

His jaw slightly dropped and Isolde inwardly smiled, knowing she had slightly bruised his ego..

"You are lucky you are not in Rome, Sarmatian. I'd have you charged with heresy and treason," he said nonchalantly.

"I'm about two seconds away from killing you myself," she retorted.

"Are you threatening me, Sarmatian?"

She gave him a deadly and cold glare, "Maybe I am."

"What's stopping you then?"

She glared at him, but did not respond. The Bishop smirked at his victory. "Do not make threats you don't intend to fulfill."

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Neither said anything, but merely silently challenging one another for a fight. Isolde wanted nothing more than to strike him down with her sword and Germanius wanted nothing more than to see the slave of Rome suffer from the utmost humiliation.

It was inevitably Maximus who trotted towards the two and suggested they keep moving before the sunset, knowing it was better to end their heated argument.

To avoid anymore confrontation Isolde rode ahead to keep watch for the men on horses which would eventually appear above the horizon.

* * *

They were only less than a day away from the wall. Isolde had decided it was best to stop by the closest village to rest before leaving at first light. She should have been sleeping for her body was exhausted but her mind kept her awake.

To calm her nerves, she was spending the night grooming her horse and sharpening her weapons. She would replay the things she would say when she saw Arthur and the knights.

Would they recognize her? Or would they simply dismiss her as another unfortunate Sarmatian warrior? Isolde kept telling her the latter seemed plausible. Afterall, it had been nearly thirteen years since they saw her. Their memories of Isolde would be a happy, carefree girl who was training to be a healer.

But Isolde was not longer that girl anymore. She was a hardened warrior after years of campaigns in the east and the west. She was proficient in the Latin language and the political schemes of greedy men. She was an able drinker and a better gambler.

They would definitely not recognize her, she said to herself.

"Still up?" said a voice.

She looked up to see Maximus taking a seat beside her. "I could say the same for you."

"It's too cold to sleep. Bloody island," he muttered, "You know, I don't think I've seen the sun since we've landed here."

Isolde chuckled at his remark. "That's Briton for you. Don't worry, my friend. It gets a lot worse."

Maximus and Isolde became quick friends throughout the remainder of their journey and found they had quite a lot in common and the same sense of humour. On the nights they kept watch, they would tell each other of their homes and families, their life stories, the happy times and the sad times. She learned of his humble birth and his upbringing in the Roman countryside. She learned of the growing love that he and his wife had for each other. She learned of their marriage and their children. She learned of his service to the military and his loyalty to Rome.

"You've been acting strange ever since we've landed here. What's the matter? And don't tell me it's the weather," he said sternly.

She slightly frowned and put down her sword. "This island is filled with ghosts."

He arched his eyebrow, "Could you be anymore cryptic?"

Isolde let out a small giggle. "It's true! Ghosts of the past. Ghosts of the present. Ghosts of the future"

"Now you're just being foolish. Come on Isolde, tell me."

"I'll tell you a story instead."

Seeing that he would get no direct answer from her, he gave in. "About what?"

"A young girl and her brother, taken from their homeland by Roman cavalry. The brother, chosen to become a great warrior while the girl, the Romans decided would train in the arts of healing. They came to Briton and befriended the Sarmatians already training there. The girl, young and naïve knew no one and was too afraid to acquaint herself with anybody. Each day, she saw her brother fade away from her as he spent each night with his new comrades. Each night, she would cry herself to sleep as she felt completely alone, abandoned and lost."

"Is this supposed to be about you?" Maximus asked amusingly.

Isolde continued the story, "Then one day, she saw a boy sparring with her brother. It took only one glance for her to feel her heart skip a beat. But still shy and timid, she failed to talk to him, resorting in stolen glances from a distance. One day, as she was in the healer's quarters, fate seemed to have brought them together. He was sent there by his superiors to get his arm stitched. They became acquainted. They became friends and then soon fell in love. Their time together was always short because of his training and patrols, and their affair was kept secret. For the first time in a very long while, the girl began to feel happy again."

"This sounds like a terrible bedtime story, Isolde."

"I'm not done!" she said playfully, "Anyways, life seemed too perfect for her. And it was. She walked in the healer's quarters to see her brother on the table; covered in blood and with an arrow embedded deep in his heart. Her teacher told her it was a horrible hunting accident in the forest. To see her brother lying in a pool of blood shattered her heart in a million pieces. The girl did everything she could, but with no avail. The brother died from the loss of blood, leaving his sister alone in the living world. Not wanting to walk the same halls of her dead kin, not wanting to be haunted by his ghost or any other ghost, she left. With no warning or notice, the girl slipped away in the middle of the night, away from her lover and her friends. She rode into the next village where she came upon a Roman centurion who was leaving to Rome. She begged him to take her with him so that she could finish her service under his command. It must have been sympathy or pity or both, but he agreed. And so began her life as a warrior. And now…well, I'm not too sure how the story ends."

She looked down at her feet and let out a sigh. It was hard for her to tell him, but it lifted a great weight off her shoulders.

Maximus squeezed her shoulder, "You will be fine Isolde. They will understand and they will forgive you."

"I didn't even see him properly buried Maximus. His body was still warm when I left," Isolde whispered.

"Hell, if those bastards won't forgive you, I'll kill them myself!" he cried out, attempting to lighten the mood.

She let out a small chuckle.

"Do you still love him?" he asked.

"I don't know. His face haunts my dreams, but I do not know if it's love or guilt. He might be dead, or he might have another lover. I don't know."

"If he loved you Isolde, if he still loves you, he will understand."

"He'd be a fool to love me after the hurt I put him through."

"Then you may call me a fool who will love and will always love his wife," he said lightly. "Do not worry Isolde."

"It's easier said than done."

Sheathing her sword, she walked to her horse and whispered gentle words in the Sarmatian tongue she grew up in.

_I will get through this.

* * *

**A/N: Short chapter, I know. Anyways, Happy Holidays**  
_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine:**

Aetius threw his cup against the wall in anger. Rome was doomed, he thought. Ever since Livius was declared Caesar, Rome would be doom to the ashes. He buried his hands in his face and sighed into them. It was unfair.

Unfair to Rome. Unfair to the people. Unfair to him.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he quietly said.

The door opened revealing a concerned Marcus. "You left the Senate quite abruptly," he remarked as he closed the door behind him.

"I couldn't bear any of it, Marcus. Watching those damn politicians turn their backs on their beloved country. It's outrageous."

"I don't know if I have any words for you that will provide any comfort, my old friend."

Aetius grimly smiled. "Do not worry over me. But I refuse to just sit and watch this empire crumble."

"What will you do then?" Marcus asked.

Aetius stood up from his seat and poured some wine in another cup conveniently replaced by a servant. He offered some to Marcus, to which he graciously accepted. It was at this moment where Aetius studied his counterpart. The battlefield had greatly aged and tired Marcus, leaving him with various scars and lines, though he was at least fifteen years younger. Aetius slightly frowned when he thought of the close friendship between Marcus and the emperor. He was afraid that foolish scoundrel would put thoughts into Marcus' head which would endanger the man's honour and belief in Rome.

But he knew he could trust Marcus.

"I am prepared to make sure Rome will not fall."

"I'm not quite sure I follow."

He grabbed Marcus' forearm and pulled him closer. "Some of the senators and I have begun to question the ability of our Caesar to rule the Western Empire effectively anymore."

Marcus took a small step back, "What are you saying? That you plan to remove him?"

Aetius took a large gulp of wine. "More or less. Or at least get that Germanic scum off his back. Ricimer! He's a piece of work, that bastard. He knows he's not well liked in Rome. Did you know Marcus, that he hired bloody mercenaries to kill Bishop Germanius? The man knows it's only a matter of time before he'll be overthrown. His fear is leading him to target the Church, for God's sake! He needs to be stopped!"

"You can't kill Ricimer! You wouldn't be able to get close to him."

"That's why I need your help Marcus. Rome needs your help. And when we succeed, history will remember you as Rome's saviour."

Marcus looked away from Aetius, weighing his options. It almost felt like an eternity for Aetius. He needed the friendship of the younger man with the Emperor in order for his plan to work. He needed supporters and manpower if he was to save Rome.

Aetius hugged his friend when he was given a slight nod.

**________________________________________________________________________**

Seven figures emerged from the horizon, along with the morning light. Arthur spotted the bishop's carriage and he took a deep breathe. After 15 long years, his men would finally get their freedom after tonight. They would finally be able to go home and decide their own fate. As for himself, he would finally be able to go to Rome and find his old mentor Pelagius. He looked to his men, who had also spotted the carriage and possessed the same look of reverie.

"Our freedom, Bors," muttered Gawain.

"Mm…I can almost taste it, " he replied as he licked his lips.

The others chuckled, knowing that their ticket off Briton was in that carriage. Tristan grunted in indifference while the others dreamed about their freedom. For him, he could care less. He watched the carriage in the distance, and then slowly looked up in the sky where he noticed some birds flying away from the forest.

Something was wrong. He could sense it with his body.

However, before he has almost time to react, he saw an arrow fly out from the trees and knock a Roman soldier off his horse.

"Woads," he quickly said. Like the others, he kicked his horse into a quick gallop, more furiously than the others knowing it would be his last battle with Arthur and his brothers..

Isolde flew from her horse and landed on the ground, when a rather large mace met her stomach. She growled in anger, ignoring the growing pain in her abdomen. Instead, she charged into a group of woads. Blow after blow, she satisfied the thirst of he sword as it met its enemy. The woads, in her opinion were a formidable opponent. They fought with passion and aggression – something Isolde rarely saw on the battlefield. This only made her smile more.

She always loved a good fight.

She glanced around, looking for Maximus as she slit the throat of her opponent. She let out a sigh when she caught his eye, but was quickly distracted when another woad began to attack her. This one fought with more ferocity than the last. She quickly blocked his attack, and was quick to counterattack. However he quickly dodged her attack, ducking under her sword and rolling away.

As he got up and charged again, he collided his elbow with her nose, causing her to stumbled back and trip over a dead body. Isolde landed on the ground with a large thud. As she shook her head to rid the pain, she looked up to see the woad bring down his sword.

She instinctively reached for her sword, but found it was out of arm's reach. The woad snarled in anger as he brought down his sword, but found it had only met the ground.

Isolde had fortunately rolled to her side in time before she met her untimely death. She grabbed her sword and sliced the woad's calves causing him to fall to the ground. As she pulled herself up, she pointed her sword at the base of his neck, and quickly ended the woad's life.

She ran over to Maximus, who was now grabbing his right arm rather tightly. "You're not quitting on me already?" she jokingly asked.

He ignored her and gestured towards the seven horses who were now engaged in the heat of the battle. "Your knights in shining armour, my lady," he playfully said.

Isolde rolled her eyes. "Go and stay by the bishop's side."

She held her breathe as she observed the seven warriors fight off the woads with the same natural agility and ferocity that ran through her veins. She noted their great cavalry skills and their archery skills, which slightly left her in awe. It was almost hypnotic to watch them.

The woads were quickly defeated with the knight's arrival. She began walking around the dead, mentally counting the number of friends and foe. She counted at least 50 dead woads, with another handful of her own comrades. She then walked by the carriage and looked inside to see the old man she had picked up along their travels dead – with an arrow sticking out of his chest.

She pursed her lips and cast her eyes to the floor - she had caused the death of an innocent man.

"What a bloody mess," said a voice behind her.

She tensed up, recognizing it as one of the Sarmatian knights. But which one, she did not know. She wanted to turn around, but suddenly felt paralyzed and could not move. So she remained still.

"That's not the bishop," said another.

The two men left to find a very much alive Bishop Germanius in full military uniform. She watched the man converse with the bishop, as she went to go find Maximus mounting his horse.

"So, when's the big reunion?" he joked.

"Any word out of you and I'll cut out your tongue," she muttered under her breathe. She glanced down at his arm, which was caked with a mixture of dirt, dry and fresh blood.

"That needs to be looked at," she added.

He quickly covered his arm with his cloak and replied, "Don't try changing the subject. It's only a matter of time before they see you."

Isolde, however wasn't listening anymore. She was staring at the knights, mesmerized by their appearance. She could barely recognize any of them, causing her to study their faces.

Her eyes landed on the biggest warrior. He was strong, burly and looked dangerous. Isolde noted of his eyes which seemed to take in everything.

Then she gazed upon a young knight, with dark curly hair and a rather scruff beard. He was beside another knight, with long untamed blonde hair. Both looked gentle, yet years of battle had hardened their faces.

Another knight with two distinctive blades caught her sight. He looked mischievous, yet she noted the sadness behind his eyes.

She moved onto the loudest knight, who was mocking Horton, the Bishop's secretary. She thought he was the most outspoken of all the knights – and probably the most drunk.

The last knight made Isolde's stomach churn. He had long wild hair, with markings on his cheek. He was the quietist of them all, she could tell. Her gaze went to his sword – an elegant curved blade, which Isolde could only assume had its origins near Asia Minor. All of sudden, the man looked up, as if he knew he was being stared at. Even masked behind the wild hair, Isolde could see the penetrating gaze which bore into her eyes.

She took a gulp of fresh air. She quickly looked away and mounted herself on her horse.

She did not want to admit it, but in her heart she knew.

_______________________________________________________________________

Isolde remained near the back of the party, and traveled rather slow. In truth, she wasn't concentrating on anything but merely staring into space. The next time she looked up, she found herself in a courtyard, and a man offering to take her horse. She smiled at him and quickly dismounted, hoping to find Maximus and stitch up his arm. The man, whose hands were on the horse's rein, broke her concentration, "We didn't expect a woman on this journey. Would you like me to prepare a separate room you?"

The words barely register to Isolde. In fact, she wasn't listening at all. She watched as the six Sarmatian warriors briskly walked past her.

"Miss?" repeated the man.

She turned to him and blinked away her confusion. She warmly smiled at him, "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

Isolde then spotted Maximus leaning against a column, patiently waiting for her. "So? Did you talk to him yet?"

She punched his arm, "You're coming with me."

"Where are we going?"

"To the healer's quarters."

"You seem to know your way around here quite well."

Isolde laughed, "You forget, dear friend. I used to live and breathe these walls."

They stopped at a door, in the middle of the corridor. She took a deep breathe and slowly opened it, expecting to see Brangaine mixing pastes and cleaning bandages.

_She timidly knocked on the door, waiting for her mentor to open the door. The Roman soldier had told her she would be learned the arts of healing, while her brother would be trained to fight. Brangaine, he told her was the name of the healer who resided at the wall. _

_The door abruptly opened, and Isolde found herself staring at a woman of at least fifty, hands caked with a green paste. Her hair was wild, but loosely tied in a bun. Her piercing and calculating eyes bore straight into Isolde. "You must be the new girl they sent me."_

"_Yes Ma'am," Isolde timidly replied._

_Brangaine pursed her lips. "Older than I expected. Well, don't just stand there. Come in and wash your hands."_

_Isolde followed the older woman and was engulfed in foreign scents and smells. She smells mints, and bark, and touches of lavender. As she looked around, she saw herbs hanging by the window, and jars of seeds and paste. She noted the fireplace at the corner of the room, and two beds placed in the middle of the room. Isolde then looked back at the woman who was now busily crushing some leaves in a bowl._

"_The art of healing is a complex and elegant practice. It takes years of practice to know what I know. And it takes hard work. So you better not slack off while you're here," Brangaine stated._

_Isolde could only stand and watch in awe. "Well what are you waiting for, girl? Come and help me!"_

The room had changed since Isolde last saw it. Instead of being greeted by smells of earth, and a warm fireplace, she had opened the door to a rather dreary room. The herbs were no longer present, but were instead replaced by sheets of linen and white cloth. There was a large basin for water, and a small knife. Essentially, she found the room quite empty.

Maximus sat himself on the bed, and took off his armour. "Nice place," he said.

Isolde smiled to herself at her memory, "You should have seen it before. It was beautiful. It smelled beautiful."

She set about washing Maximus' cut. "This one's deep," she muttered to no one in particular. She inserted the needle into his skin, causing him to wince and recoil slightly. "Scared of a little needle?" she joked.

Maximus coughed, "I was surprised. That's all."

The door suddenly opened, and both Isolde and Maximus look up see one of the knights. Isolde was so startled that she accidentally stabbed Maximus rather aggressively, causing him to flinch.

"I'm sorry. I hadn't realized anybody was in here," the knight said. He was the giant knight that Isolde saw earlier in the day. She saw a humorous glint in his eyes, which slightly confused her.

"Are yo-you the healer?" Isolde sputtered out.

He warmly smiled. "No, The wall has not had a healer for quite some time."

Her eyebrows went up in question. What had happened to Brangaine?

"You have no healer? What happens if there are injuries and illnesses?" Maximus inquired. Isolde glared at him. She knew what he was up to.

The knight again smiled, and looked at Isolde. She gulped under his gaze.

She knew he knew.

"There…were two healers during my years here. One had suddenly left, with no notice or warning. No one knew what came of her. The other…stayed at the wall for a few more years, before moving away to a nearby village. She died a few years back. Now if we need a healer, we call for one in the village. Otherwise, I do my best to play doctor. But I do not possess the skill or talent of the previous inhabitants of this room."

Isolde said nothing, but quickly finished up Maximus' wound as the knight told his story. She grabbed the bottle of salve and threw it at him. "Rub this on for the next two days," she muttered.

She proceeded to leave the room, but the knight lightly touched her forearm. She looked up at him, expecting to see hatred. Instead, her eyes were met with a gentle pair of brown eyes.

"Isolde…" he whispered.

She cast her eyes down. "If you have harsh words for me, then say it now."

"There is nothing ill to say, old friend. I am happy you are back. _He _will be happy."

Saying nothing in response, she quickly walked out to collect her thoughts, only to bump into the Bishop's secretary. "The bishop would like to talk to you in private," he said.

_Any distraction is good right now,_ she thought. She let out a huge sigh and followed Horton to the Bishop's room.

____________________________________________________________________________


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:**

If some sort of god did exist, then Isolde was convinced she was being severely punished. She felt everything and everybody was working against her, as if a thousand daggers were being pierced through her body.

She had planned to drink herself to a happy place the minute they arrived at the fort, keep to herself and silently wish that no one would recognize her. She has also thought they'd be out of Briton by the next full moon.

But the gods decided not to play fair.

Not only must Isolde must endure the inevitable encounters of her brother's former comrades, she just learned from the Bishop that she was to accompany them on a final mission.

She clenched her fist in an attempt to calm herself down and sunk against the stone wall onto the cold damp floor. It wasn't fair, she thought. It was never suppose to be this way. As a young girl, she dreamt many dreams of her future. Isolde closed her eyes and tried to remember those childish dreams from her youth.

She remembered dreaming of falling in love, and raising a family in her homeland. She dreamed of riding through fields of grass with her horse. She dreamed of being happy.

She opened her eyes and looked to her left. It was a long corridor leading to what she assumed was sleeping quarters. The stone walls had blocked out the daylight, giving the corridor an empty and cold presence which sent shivers down her spine. She looked to her right and saw several people bustling about the fort.

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Those dreams were long gone, for she was living in a reality that stole away her happiness.

Isolde stood up and headed towards the stable in hopes that her great mare might give her some slight comfort.

As she walked around town, she felt strange and surreal. Through her journey, she must have imagined a hundred times the exact moments and reactions of her return. She expected anger, hatred, tears and betrayal.

Yet…nothing happened. People past by her as if she were just another Roman soldier. No one gave her death glares nor foul words. She had expected Dagonet to look upon her with disgust and hatred, yet he did the opposite.

Nothing was what it seemed, she thought.

She entered the stables and was surprised to find her horse being groomed by a man she felt she did not recognize from her past.

She smiled at his gentle technique as he stroked her horses' side in long melodic moves.

"You groom a horse as if you make love to a woman," she remarked.

The man looked up startled, but not scared. Recomposing himself, he gave a small smile, "I find horses more difficult than women. You anger them if you groom them too harshly, and they whine if you don't do it enough."

She walked up to her mare and gently stroked his ear to which he responded with a friendly nudge. "You deserve a rest old friend," she whispered. "We have another journey ahead of us."

"Is he of Sarmatian breed?" the man inquired.

She turned to him and nodded her head. The man gestured to the other horses and said, "Your horse is like theirs. Proud and powerful and loyal animals. These are the knights' horses and they've been under my care since I was but a boy. My name is Kevin."

"Then I trust him in your care," she said and patted his shoulder.

She proceeded to walk out when the man spoke again, "You're from Rome, right?"

Isolde turned around and face the man once again. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, "Is it true then? Is Rome abandoning us? Are we to be left defenseless? There are whispers among the people here that Rome will leave us to the woads."

Her shoulders unconsciously tensed up and said nothing. It had never occurred to her how the common folk felt about the political decisions made by the Emperor. As a soldier, she was there to obey orders no matter how cruel or gruesome. She witnessed first hand how Senators debated for hours concerning the fate of Roman Provinces. Now this man – this British man, stood before her, wanting to know how this political game would affect him.

It seemed like a game to her. She looked at the man and saw in his eyes a sense of desperation and hope. She wished she could give him some relief, but she knew her words would not comfort him.

She gave a small smile, "He likes apples. Give him a treat for me."

* * *

Dagonet filled his brothers' cup full of ale before filling his. Together they raised glass and downed its content in one huge gulp. He watched each of his fellow knights carefully while they laughed and joked with one another. Galahad and Gawain were reminiscing about their drunken nights with barwenches,

Fifteen years they fought together, and now it seemed like it was ending. They were talks of going home, but home was a very distant memory for Dagonet. Now that freedom was in his grasp, he honestly could not decide what to do next.

Taking another gulp, his eyes wandered to Tristan's direction and watched the silent knight as he listened to his comrades' stories. He gave a small smile at his old friend, knowing that the woman he loved and still loves has come back.

Tristan looked up and met Dagonet's eyes. As always, it was always difficult to read his thoughts and emotions. Dagonet raised his cup to the scout, but was only met with a sense of discontent and anger fuelling inside the scout's mind.

A gesture of the head was given, and the two knights silently walked out of the tavern and into the darkness to converse.

"What troubles you Tristan?"

"It's her isn't it?" he asked.

He looked at his friendly with a small smile. "What does your heart tell you?"

The scout chuckled and spit of the ground with a distaste upon a word which only brought pain for him. "It tells me nothing anymore. And if it does, I refuse to listen."

Dagonet remained silent but made an effort to observe the silent scout, yet couldn't decipher whether his friend was angry, sad or overjoyed.

He sighed. Sometimes he wished Tristan could be like the others and just pour their emotions out when intoxicated.

"What will you do then?" he simply asked.

The scout looked up and his stare penetrated Dagonet's eyes with an amount ferocity that for a spilt second almost frightened the larger man. But for once, Dagonet was able to see the raw emotions that lay behind the scout's dark eyes, but quickly disappeared when he stormed off into the distance.

And it was that moment that Dagonet truly understood the pain that Tristan felt for all these years: he was hurting, in every possible way. He hated her, yet still loved her. Loathed her, yet desire her. Wanted to hurt her, yet protect her.

The question still lingered at the back of his mind, and the constant curiosity nagging at the back of his mind left him to wonder whether Isolde's sudden return would help or kill his old friend.

Perhaps, Dagonet thought, Isolde was the final battle he was seeking.

* * *

The streets of Rome were relatively abandoned by the time the moon shone brightly, high in the sky. It was the perfect time for secret lovers to meet or crimes to happen. The dark side of Roman city streets were unsafe, for it was the perfect time for the ghosts and demons to emerge out of the shadows.

He kept himself hidden in the shadows, waiting for the other party to arrive. Tonight was the night, he'd deliver the news to his master of the events that unfolded in Gaul. He'd tell him of the attempted assassination. He'd tell him of the Sarmatian knight that cost him a handful of good loyal men.

And in return, he'd hoped that a monetary reward would follow, and a new mission to spill blood.

A scuffle of rapid footsteps could be heard in the distance, and the hooded warrior stayed still as a statue, waiting for the sound to disappear.

The footsteps became slower and methodic until they suddenly stopped. The hooded warrior smiled. His master had come.

He crept out of the demon's shadows and looked up at the greatest Germanic warrior ever to set foot in Rome.

"Did you do as I asked?" Ricimer asked.

"We followed the carriage upon their arrival in Gaul until they reached Lugdunum. It was there we made our move to scare the Bishop."

"Well? Did you succeed? Did you deliver your message to him?" the general asked in eagerness.

The hooded warrior shifted his weight in hesitation. "Well…we ran into some trouble. We knew that the Sarmatian knight you told us was there, but we greatly underestimated her skill. She had eyes like a hawk. Ears like a fox, and wielded a sword as powerful as any man. I lost most of the men that night."

Ricimer said nothing. Yet even in the absence of light, he knew his master was not pleased.

"So the message was not delivered."

The hooded warrior cast his eyes on the ground, ashamed to disappoint such a great general. "What are your next orders, sir? Shall I travel to Briton? Shall I wait for them upon their return to Rome?"

Ricimer reached behind his cloak and presented the warrior with a leather pouch, where the gold coins clashed with one another. "I shouldn't even be paying you because of your incompetence to perform one simple task. But your mission is critical in my plans, so this will be to replenish your supplies and recruit more _abled_ men."

"Thank you sir," the warrior said hastily.

"As for your next orders, you are to wait until the Bishop retrieves the young Alecto Honorious from the Northern Province. When the party arrives in the footsteps of Gaul, you are to attack and ambush the Bishop and take the boy. It is imperative that the boy must not be harmed. Am I understood?"

The warrior nodded. "And the Bishop?"

"Once I have the Pope's own god-son, Bishop Germanius would be of no use to me."

* * *

The sword erected proudly on the mound of grass where the body of his fallen brother laid. The sword told a lot about a warrior. It embodied the user's personality and showed their opponents their strengths and to the sharp eye, it showed their opponents their weaknesses.

Tristan gently rested his hand on the sword of Caradoc and closed his eyes to pay respects to his fallen brother. In an instant, he fell to his knees against his will and let out a huge sigh.

"Give me strength," he whispered.

He saw her on the battlefield and knew in an instant it was her, for he could never forget those eyes. It made his heart stop and his stomach turn, and the anger and desire he felt towards her almost clouded his judgment.

He watched her every swing, her every footstep, her every attack. Isolde wasn't the Isolde that left all those years ago. He saw a warrior, not a healer. He saw a woman, not a girl. He saw coldness, not warmth.

He watched her as she stared amongst the knights, and he watched her as her eyes fell upon his own. They were the same eyes that he came to love all those years ago and the same eyes he learn to hate many years later.

A branch snapped in the distance, and Tristan immediately stood up, with his dagger. He remained still and listened to the earth and the wind. Someone was watching him. Someone was listening.

Perhaps it was those bloody Romans who wanted to come back for a real fight, or perhaps it was perhaps Lancelot or Arthur. Tristan would take no chance, for he knew a moment of hesitation could cost him his life.

He heard a rustle of leaves in the shadows of the trees and he silently slipped into his own blanket of darkness, watching and waiting for his prey.

He watched as she emerged from the shadows and placed herself onto the very spot he had been. His shoulder tensed and his breathe momentarily stopped. Had she seen him?

He watched as she grazed her hands on the sword, gently caressing it until her hands touched the earth again. He looked at her and noted that this woman that knelt before him was the girl he once loved.

Or was it that he still loved?

Her hands grazed the hilt of the sword that in moments early he had touched himself, and as she knelt down on the grass where he was.

And through soft rustles of wind and leaves, Tristan could hear a faint sob and he strained his eyes to see Isolde's body slightly shaking. Even in the saddest moments, Tristan couldn't take his eyes off her - for she was still mesmerizing in every single way.

His back shrunk against the trunk and he slid down to the ground, listening to her faint sobs and the whispered name of her brother, and feeling his heart break into a thousand pieces once more.

* * *

**_A/N: _It's been awhile....enjoy!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11:**

She slammed her cup down as the alcohol burned down her throat. Tonight, Isolde decided would be a night to drink and to get drunk. As she called for another jug, she noticed Maximus had taken a seat beside and began looking at her oddly.

"What?" she asked.

"You're not your usual self," he observed.

Isolde laughed as she brought her cup to her lips. "That's because I'm drunk."

"Why?"

She sighed in frustration. Why can't she just be left alone?

"Because I _can._"

"Not because you're trying to avoid _him?_"

Isolde remained silent and chose to resume her drinking. Maximus continued to stare at her, partly out of admiration, out of bewilderment and out of shock. After the tragic love story he had discovered about Isolde, he was waiting for the lover's reunion – the long awaited ending to such a great love. It reminded him of his own love, and his wife who was waiting for him back home.

His shoulders shrunk in disappointment though; as it was obvious it was not going to happen anytime soon.

"You know, you Samartians are awfully stubborn."

"It's not stubbornness Maximus."

"Oh? Then tell me, what would you call it?"

"Oh I don't know! What do you expect me to do? Prance and skip in the room and yell at the top of my lungs, 'I'm back!'? Open my arms wide open and expect to be swept off my feet? I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that will never happen."

Maximus pursed his lips tightly. "You could start with a 'hello'."

"I came here to drink, not talk about my pathetic life. Good night, Maximus," Isolde said angrily. She rose up from her seat and proceeded to storm off from the tavern.

However, the gods decided not to play fair tonight. Her shoulders bumped rather harshly into another shoulder, causing not only her drink to spill all over herself, but the other party as well.

"Sorry," she proceeded to say and carelessly looked up.

"You're drunk … Isolde," the dark-haired knight said.

She noted the hesitance as her named slipped from his tongue, to which she laughed bitterly inside. She slightly squinted her eyes and noted it was the curly-haired knight that held the two swords earlier in the battle field. His eyes felt familiar, but she could not recall a name.

"Thank you for stating the obvious, sir," she sarcastically replied. Isolde then again proceeded to leave the tavern, wanting nothing more to be alone at this particular moment. However, the knight gently grabbed her elbow and begged her to stay.

"The other knights…they will want to see you again. It's been too long since we've set our eyes of the sister of Caradoc. How you've changed Isolde…your brother would not recognize you."

Her brother's name sent a sharp pain in her heart and she unconsciously casted her eyes towards her feet. "Please do not talk of my brother. Though the pain may have subdued for you, it is still very well fresh in my heart,' she whispered softly.

She looked up again and for a moment exposed the raw vulnerability to a knight whose name she did not even know. He let go her elbow, and though he was expecting her to run off to solitude, he found her still there, staring off into the distance.

"I was there, you know," he whispered. "And we all wished and still wish we can go back in time and save the ones we loved."

He gazed upon her intently and observed the woman that now stood before him. She was no longer the young, meek healer that once roamed the walls. Her brown hair that was once so carelessly tousled was now braided back, hidden in her cape. Whatever dress she once wore in her youth was replaced with an intricately designed breastplate which perfectly curved to her body while a great sword hugged her body. Isolde now stood tall and sharp, like a hardened warrior.

"We wish for a lot of things. But, we can never get what we want," she replied.

He held out his hand once more. "Please…stay and drink with us. I assure you, there will be no harsh words towards you. We've all missed you terribly."

Isolde shook her head. "I'm not so sure you _all_ wish to see me. What I did...running away…it was a dishonor in my brother's name."

Once again, she began to leave the tavern, leaving the nameless knight to celebrate his night of freedom.

"It's Lancelot, in case you forgot!" he yelled after her.

She looked over her shoulder, and saw nothing but playful jest in his eyes and suddenly the memories of younger boys sparring in the courtyard with wooden swords came to her mind. She could see Caradoc, Tristan and Lancelot, all young, innocent and carefree as they trained together.

_How we all wish we could relive and change the past,_ she sadly thought.

* * *

As she walked through the halls, the sudden pain grew in her head, causing Isolde to blinked rather rapidly as the torches flickered with the wind. She laughed bitterly to herself.

Who knew the ale in Briton was so _damn bloody _strong.

As she turned the corner, she heard the faint murmur and laughter of men that continued to grow louder and louder. She inwardly groaned.

_Please let it not be them,_ she silently begged.

A roar of laughter broke the silence in the air and sent a huge wave of pain between her eyes causing her to wince in pain.

_Please, please, please._

She opened her eyes and immediately recognized Dagonet and to her dismay he too, had seen her.

"Isolde!" he yelled as he strode towards her with his eyes lit up.

She gave a loud sigh, suddenly forgetting how to walk and not knowing what to do. Her eyes scanned past the large knight and saw the other knights went quiet at the sound of her name. Some were reluctant to follow Dagonet, while another knight was quick to match Dagonet's pace.

Worst of all, she could see in the very distance Tristan who had stopped walking. Their eyes locked for one quick moment and like in the flash of lightning, he turned around and walked away. And the strangest of all, Isolde felt her shoulders dropped in disappointment as his figure disappeared from her sight.

_You were just a child. Forget him. He's forgotten you. He hates you. Don't let him ruin you..but he already has…just ignore him…,_ she thought as she tried to reason with herself.

"Isolde!" The voice broke her thoughts as the knights swarmed her in a massive circle.

"Hold on Dagonet! Don't hog 'er for 'erself!" said another knight. He grabbed Isolde from her shoulders and twirled her around as if she was a doll.

"Well, look at you," he mused. "You've grown up into a fine lady warrior. What would Caradoc say? You're a beauty! Too bad Tristan…"

"Shh!" yelled a younger knight, who jabbed his elbow in the other's ribs.

She shook her head to focus her sight and ignored his comment. "I don't know," she quietly said.

"Bors, let's not harass the girl," the long-hair knight replied. "She's drunk as it is. No need to twirl and dance with her. It'll give her a splitting headache…believe me. I speak from experience."

Her eyes fell on his gentle face as she tried to remember his name.

"Gawain?" she quietly asked, suddenly remembering a smaller version of the man in front of her.

He gave a silent smile and enveloped her in a hug. "I'm glad you still remember Isolde. I was afraid you'd forgotten all our faces."

She gave a small smile as Dagonet placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "What did I tell you? No harsh words."

She looked up at him, thinking of how he spoke like a loving father. Isolde gave him a warm smile, though she knew her eyes remained distant and cold. "None yet, I suppose. But perhaps no words are better than any."

He knowingly smiled back. "He will come around. Give him time."

Bors, in his most drunken manner wrapped his arm around Isolde's neck. "Come, let's drink to the past…the present…and our freedom!"

He let out a loud roar and began pounding his chest, to which Isolde could not help but laugh.

Perhaps tonight, she will humour them and for once drink for a happy memory.

* * *

Marcus stood patiently as he waited for Aetius in the courtyard of his mentor's home. Throughout his military career, every victory followed a reward – usually a very large reward. Back in the day when Aetius remained loyal and faithful to Livius, the emperor had lavished the general with lands and villas following any campaign, no matter how small or big it was.

This home was just one of the many Aetius now owned throughout the province. A twinge of jealously shot through his heart as Marcus found himself comparing himself to Aetius. Though they were at least a generation apart, he could not help but think that their skills in battle were almost equal and even thought of himself as more capable than the older soldier.

Of all the victories he won for Rome, Livius was never quite as generous to him. There were horses, monetary rewards and titles, but never land.

Because land meant power.

The courtyard was busy with servants and slaves as they ran around with vases, chairs and trunks, as Aetius emerged from the drawing room with Senator Gracchus.

"Ah, Marcus! So sorry to keep you waiting," Aetius replied.

The younger solider smiled at the aging man. "There are no apologies between us Aetius. But I come here to tell you of what I have learned since we're last met."

Gracchus looked at the two soldiers and patted Aetius' back. "I have no idea what soldiers conspire, nor do I want to. So gentlemen of the future republic, I take your leave. But a word of caution Primus Pilus: Ricimer is a _very_ dangerous man. He has spies everywhere and can track you from the ends of the world. Please be extremely careful."

Marcus pursed his lips. He did not need to be reminded of the dangerous game he was playing right now. He knew what they were doing was right, but there were some days where Marcus felt like the villain and not the hero.

Aetius led Marcus into the drawing room and shut the door quietly behind him. "What news Marcus?"

"Livius grows bored each day as politics and treaties are being replaced by warfare and I suspect this is Ricimer's doing. He deprives Livius of what he loves most until he cannot contain his thirst no more. I suspect that, if Livius declares sudden war for whatever foolish reason, it will politically give Ricimer enough leverage to question Livius' rule in front of the Senate. Livius will be labeled as a tyrant and be force to abdicate."

"…and Ricimer will replace Livius with another Emperor puppet," Aetius mused.

"Yes, I believe so. However there's something else he's plotting but I do not know what."

"And pray tell, what do you suspect?"

"Ricimer wishes to have complete power, but he knows he cannot for many reasons. The Roman people will never accept a Germanic emperor. Constantinople will never accept his leadership, which will be a political ruin for Rome. And above all, the Church will never accept him."

"Do you think he wishes to control all of Rome?"

Marcus gave a grim nod. "Yes. One day, he won't need anymore puppets nor will have any need to hide behind in the shadows."

"We must tread carefully with this news my friend, for we ride forward in bloody waters. Yes, blood will be shed, and I believe has already been shed."

Marcus looked at Aetius inquisitively. "..._been_ shed?"

"Gracchus came to discuss the assassination attempt on Bishop Germanius' life en route to Briton. I've already told you about mercenaries that were hired, do you recall?"

_Germanius?_ _Assassination? When did he… _Marcus thought. _Isolde was with him...no…she couldn't be.._

"Was…was anybody.." Marcus began to question, but could not find the right words to mask his emotions. But what was he thinking? Isolde's skills were legendary within the legion. Surely she was able to escape an assassination attempt.

"No, nobody was injured. A few scares and cuts, but nothing serious. Still, it was serious enough for us to suspect his motives."

"Attack Germanius? He doesn't even have power over the pope. Why him? Wouldn't he want to target someone more powerful?"

"Germanius is one of the few religious men who have both feet in politics and religion, which makes him a threat. He has influence over many senators and many bishops. He's usually a calm individual…doesn't like to meddle in policy-making. But I've seen him fight with passion for a cause, which makes him a dangerous threat to Ricimer."

"And now that he failed? What happens now?"

"I don't know. We can only speculate, yet it remains crucial that we remain one step ahead of Ricimer. You must remain by Livius' side and monitor him. We must be ready for the moment Ricimer throws Livius away, and we must be ready to eliminate him."

"I'll do whatever it takes Aetius. For the _new _Res Publica."

The soldiers locked forearms in a mutual agreement signaling respect and admiration for one another, as well as it was the sign of their new committed cause.

"For the new Res Publica"

* * *

**A/N: Enjoy!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12:**

Isolde spent the remainder of her night drinking with all her former friends, and became surprised of the kind and warm words they all had to say to her. No one was particularly angry of her sudden re-appearance, and no one had asked her what had happened all those years ago.

Secretly, she thought they were making a conscious effort of avoiding the topic and its related parties.

And the mere fact that Tristan had refused to join the table, but instead chose the company of a bar wench made Isolde feel slightly uncomfortable and jealous. But the effects of the alcohol once again consumed her, and she quickly forgot about the man root to all her misery.

"You must tell us Isolde, what the bloody hell you've been doing in that wretched city. And you better not telling us pouring wine for old geezers!" yelled Bors.

"Yes, tell us of your adventures!" begged Galahad.

She chuckled at the younger knight, recalling from her own memories a young boy full of energy but barely strong enough to hold a sword. Isolde looked at him now, grown, handsome and full of passion.

Isolde took another big chug of her cup and for a good while proceeded to tell the knights of her campaigns in Iberia and Greece, her fellow knights back home, her commander, and her life in Rome.

"And what about you? Surely there must be some legendary tales of Arthur's great Sarmatian knights," inquired Isolde.

A huge laugh erupted from the table as each proceeded to story tell their own adventures during the years of service.

And yet throughout the laughter and happiness that was shared amongst the table, Isolde could almost feel a thorn pricking her heart every time a ghosted name was spoken. Her eyes unconsciously drifted towards the table where the scout was now seated in a comfortable position with the bar wench. She watched as the girl whispered things in his ears while his hands slowly caressed her back.

And unwillingly, the sight sent a thousand sharp pains into her heart.

At that moment, Tristan looked up and locked eyes with her again. Isolde's heart jumped a beat, yet her stubbornness willed her to remain eye contact. She slightly narrowed her eyes when she couldn't read his emotions.

In turn, he gave her a slight nod and then proceeded to kiss the woman on his lap.

It must have been obvious of the apparent emotion plastered on Isolde's face, for Dagonet was quick to take notice of the situation. He noticed her shoulders had dropped at the sight of Tristan and another woman.

He patted his hand over Isolde's back and whispered, "It's his odd way of grieving, I suppose."

Isolde scoffed, "If I had one denarii every time a man told his wife that after she caught him with another woman."

Suddenly feeling the weight on the night and the impending mission of the next day, her mood quickly soured. The weight on her shoulders kept getting heavier as she found out that the men hadn't even received their papers yet.

She gritted her teeth at Germanius' scheming mind. It was his dirty way of sending them to potential danger.

"Gentlemen, I believe it's time for me to retire this night. It's been a very long journey for me, and whatever energy I had left, you have now completely drained me of!" she joked.

As she drunkenly struggled to leave the tavern, she passed by Arthur whose grim face told her everything.

He knew of Germanius' mission, and now Isolde could only assume it was now time to break the happy mood. Isolde's smile left her face, and she wobbled down the streets in hopes of finding some solitude and peace.

And in the deep distance, a beautiful voice began singing at which the whole street remained silent.

_..We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home, we will go home…_

_

* * *

_

Tonight, the effects of the alcohol were truly taking effect for Isolde. She found herself practically stumbling down the corridor to find her sleeping quarters. Twice she had almost fallen as she turned corners, which inevitably led her to literally walking against the stone cold wall.

_Bloody ale,_ she bitterly thought.

She momentarily stopped to orient herself and blinked a few times to focus her eyes.

_Ah!_ _Second door to the right._

It was her old room, and ironically enough it was the same room that she would be staying in nearly 13 years later. Isolde laughed at the irony of her life.

"Life is just a circle of games," she whispered to herself.

"You think it's just a game?" a low voiced crept from behind her.

Before she had anytime to react, she found her back pinned against the masonry wall. It wasn't a deathly grip, but it was strong enough for her drunken demeanor to lack any reaction.

She went down to grab a dagger from her hip, but found her hands unable to move, for her assailant had gripped both her wrists against her body.

"You think it was all just a game to you?" he repeated himself, and Isolde could smell the alcohol in his breath.

She looked up at him and said nothing.

He gripped her wrists harder and she bit down her tongue to suppress any cry that threatened to escape her lips.

"You _left_."

Her eyes were unable to focus as tears began to form around the rim of her eyes, yet she willed herself to control her emotions. _Not like this,_ she told herself.

He had every right to be angry. He had every right to hurt her. He had every right to even kill her.

Her gaze remained unfazed and she remained silent, allowing him to attack her. He tightened his grip once again and slammed his cup against the wall, letting the broken pieces fall to the ground.

"_Why?_" he dangerously asked.

She looked at him again, and looked in his eyes to see the raw emotion of desperation and anger. He was looking for answers - looking for closure.

"Tristan..," she desperately whispered, as if his name was some forbidden word she could not speak.

He brought his head close to her ear and Isolde could slowly hear his heavy breaths on her neck. Her hands were slowly beginning to lose feeling and she began to wriggle herself out of the pain. But he was stronger than her, and he would not loosen his grip. On the contrary, he only gripped tighter.

"Why did you come back…" he trailed off.

A tear trailed down her cheek and she closed her eyes. "Hate me, Tristan. I want you to hate me. I _want _you to hate me," she struggled to say.

She felt the weight of his body disappear and felt the sudden blood rush through her hands again. She opened her eyes and found herself staring into nothingness.

As quickly as he came, he disappeared, leaving Isolde leaning against the wall and staring at her newly bruised wrists.

She slid down onto the floor as the tears began to uncontrollably flow.

_Hate me. Hate me. Hate me._

_

* * *

  
_

Aetius watched as Livius paced around the room in a frantic state. The emperor had spent the last hour deliriously talking to himself, muttering a language that Aetius could not understand. In his ears, it sounded like a mix of Latin, Germanic and some other unfamiliar eastern tongue. Aetius sighed, thinking of the last senate meeting which had sent Livius in his psychotic state. The move to Ravenna had not been a popular choice, and Gracchus and Aetius had already begun their campaign against the emperor, recruiting as many political supporters as they could. Naturally, these senators began speaking out against Livius during this meeting and some were even bold enough to suggest his competence to rule.

A cup suddenly flew across the room, startling the soldier.

"This is mutiny!" yelled Livius. "How dare they question my power! They should all be tried for treason and be hanged! Tell me Primus Pilus, what vile words do they say behind closed doors?"

Aetius cleared his throat, mentally choosing his words carefully. "I cannot say…you know politicians; they tend to be so secretive."

Livius let out a mad laugh. "How right you are! But Senator Gracchus does not make an effort to hide his disgust for me," he spat.

A servant walked in and placed a platter of fruit and wine on a table and quickly left, not to disturb the emperor. At the sight of food, Livius slightly relaxed and in an instance flew to his chair to indulge himself in such gluttony.

"Tell me, Primus Pilus," he began, "how do you plan on telling your Sarmatian wife-to-be of her good fortune of becoming the Lady Gaius?"

Marcus tensed up, not sure of the answer himself. Day and night, he had imagined the fateful moment where they would be married, yet had not devised a way to break the news.

"I believe the moment we are reunited, everything will come together. And I pray everyday to God to give us strength for the days ahead."

Livius let out another laugh. "Yes…I suppose strength _is_ needed. But do not forget our agreement Primus Pilus."

Aetius gave a grim nod, remembering he had sealed the fate of himself and Isolde to serve Livius.

"And as your first assignment, you are to give me enough evidence of treason among these traitorous politicians. I want to know who my enemies are, so I can kill them."

"You want me to be a spy?" Marcus replied slowly.

"Yes, I suppose. Find out anything you can, Primus Pilus. And if you lie to me Marcus, let me remind you that I can easily send your beloved slave to her death and ruin your military career faster than you say 'Rome'. Do I make myself clear?"

Livius was now standing and his eyes pierced into Marcus' eyes, which sent chills down his spine. It was a rare moment to see Livius with such ferocity and greed, for his childish and selfish demeanor was notoriously infamous throughout the city.

"I am loyal only to you, Caesar."

* * *

"_Do you think we're doomed to live our lives without choice?" _

_  
Isolde laid on the grass, and stared up towards the blanket of stars which glittered in the sky. She turned her head and looked up at Tristan who lazily played with her hair._

"_Why do you ask?"_

"_I don't know. It's easy to accept the lives we have; especially us. Taken from our homes and forcing to live a life not of our own…don't you think there's more to life than just following someone else's orders?"_

_He looked at her and gently stroked her face as he lower his lips and kissed her softly on her lips. "And if you had the choice, would you have stayed in Sarmatia?"_

_She smiled at him and playfully replied, "Oh yes. I would have stayed with my tribe, married some would-be warrior, bore him four-five children, become a wife and live my life in content; never once thinking about the world outside of our home."_

"_And who would be that would-be husband of yours?" _

_Tristan gently pushed her back down on the grass, and now towered over her. She giggled at him as he placed small kisses on her neck towards her jaw line._

"_Oh I don't know…perhaps some big burly Sarmatian, with a long beard...definitely not someone like you. My father wouldn't have approved," she joked._

_Their lips met once more; their bodies entangled like a pair of vines. As they parted, Tristan breathlessly whispered, "I would live any life chosen for me if it means falling in love with you."_

_Isolde's heart skipped a beat, unsure of what she heard. She slowly looked in his eyes, searching for some double meaning, but found that he had meant every word of it._

"_Tristan…" she began and found herself breaking into a warm smile._

_Their bodies entangled once more as the moon shone brightly in the sky, basking their bodies in a gentle, white moonlight. _

Her body violently shook as she woke up from a memory of her past. She had departed with Arthur and the other knights the night before and had rode nonstop until Arthur had decided to rest.

She looked around to see most the other knights fast asleep, but all with their hands on their swords in case of an ambush. The fire had died down, leaving only a burning ember beneath the wood. She also noticed that it had already begun to rain, with the moisture beginning to seep through the leather and her clothes.

As she looked around, she noticed that Tristan was not there and Isolde quickly assumed he had gone ahead scouting their route and their surroundings. Ever since their hostile encounter, no other words had been spoken between them, and the other knights were beginning to take notice. She'd noticed that Tristan would barely utter a word in her presence and when he did, it was either only to Dagonet or Arthur. She also noticed he'd quickly leave the party to ride ahead and never to return until the early morning – and even then, he would not look at her in the eye.

It was as if he regarded her as a ghost.

His attitude sent sadness to her heart, but she reasoned that it was her punishment for leaving all those years ago.

_I deserve it,_ she said to herself.

Yet deep down, she didn't know how much more she could take.

A faint rustle in the trees jolted her back to reality and she grabbed her sword readying for an attack. They were travelling north of the wall and in the territory of the enemy, which made their mission a potential fatal one.

Tristan emerged from the trees bow and arrow at hand and his pet hawk perched on his shoulder, and Isolde calmly placed her sword back on the ground. Naturally, he had disregarded her and went straight to his horse.

Suddenly feeling tired, or whether she wanted to excuse herself from his sight, she laid back on the ground and turned her body away from him, begging her body and mind to fall back asleep.

But her eyes remained open, and her mind remained alert and she began listening to the small and indiscreet sounds happening around her.

She soon became restless and once again sat back up and found herself staring into Tristan's eyes. She bit her lips, wanting to say something – say _anything_ – to break the tension between them. Isolde opened her mouth, in hopes of words coming out.

But her voice betrayed her and she remained silent.

Tristan gave her unreadable look, and Isolde became thoroughly surprised when he muttered to her, "You best get some rest while you can."

As quick as the words came, he disappeared into the shadows again, leaving Isolde bewildered and confused. However, she could not help the small smile that crept upon her lips, giving her a very small amount of hope that maybe – just maybe – things wouldn't be so terrible after all.

* * *

**A/N: Happy Holidays!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

The estate of Marius Honorius looked like any other villa that hugged the Roman city walls. It was grand in size, imposing in mature, and symbolically powerful. Isolde pursed her lips as the estate gradually crept from the horizon. Its very sight was a reminder of how much she hated everything the Romans stood for. She glanced at Arthur, who noticed his pace had slightly slowed and she could only guess that he was slightly awed by its massive scale.

"You certainly don't see that everyday in Briton," she casually commented.

Arthur turned to her and gave her a small smile, and she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. They had raced through the Woad-infested forests through the rest of the day and night, knowing the dangers of traveling through enemy territory. They even had a close encounter with fighting with the Woads, yet their leader had called off the ambush, giving Arthur the belief that the Woads were now saving their efforts for the approaching Saxons. Now that the journey was nearly over, the fatigue now began to appear on all the knight's faces.

She turned her attention to the approaching crowds of people that began to encircle them as they rode through the gates. The dirt on their faces, the ragged clothing they wore and the coarseness of their hands only led Isolde to believe they were slaves to their Roman Lord. She looked at their faces, and felt suddenly uncomfortable under their curious gazes. She turned away and drew a deep breathe as the few Roman guards who patrolled the lands drew their swords.

"Who are you?" a voice commanded from behind them.

Each knight cautiously directed their hand on their own weapon, ready for a fight. She looked past the guards and saw a large man draped in robes marching down the path, with who Isolde assumed his wife in tow.

"Perfect timing, " Gawain whispered to her. "Now we'll see how this plays out."

"Oh?"

"Just look at him...pompous ass. I'm sure you've seen lots of those in Rome. Self-obsessed, disrespecting and dumb," he explained.

Isolde stifled a chuckled, knowing full well what he meant.

"Total brute," she added.

She turned her attention towards Arthur, who began to lose patience with the stubborn Roman. She couldn't make out what they were saying, but from the angered looks from both their faces, it seemed as if the Roman wasn't going to follow Arthur's orders.

"Are you from Rome?" a small voice broke the cold wind.

Isolde turned her head and her eyes met a young man whose face was hollowed out from hunger and proper sleep. His skin was pale, his hair was dark, and his eyes were dark, giving him the strange appearance of a ghost. "Why do you ask?" she replied.

"God has sent you to save our Lord," he stated.

He immediately cast his eyes on the ground and whispered, "Have you come to save us too?"

She merely stared at him, unsure of any response she could give. She knew her orders were to retrieve the Roman family, and in particular the young Alecto Honorius and escort them back to Rome. No one had mentioned anything about a whole village of Romano-Britons living north of the Wall. No one said anything about bringing everybody who sought sanctuary back to the wall. She looked up and met Dagonet's eyes, who could only look sadly with sympathy and understanding.

She looked back at the man with firmness, suddenly angry at him and sharply replied, "Only the helpless and useless needs saving. You and your entire village could walk out those doors and they can only stare and watch." She paused, and looked directly in his eyes. "We save ourselves from the horrid reality we live in. No God, or any other man should tell you what you can or cannot do."

The man looked at her in shock. "If you're not sent from God, and you haven't come to save us…w-who are you?"

She sadly smiled at him, "I am not the saviour you seek, nor the answer to your freedom."

_We can only save ourselves._

* * *

The sounds of the drums were getting louder. Each passing beat grew heavier. It meant time was running out, which meant he was putting his knights in greater danger. Arthur looked around the estate grounds, disgusted at what he saw. The starved village, the lashings, and the smell almost made Arthur sick. This wasn't the image of the Roman life he had envisioned since childhood. A group of them looked sadly towards him, as if they were silently praying for some sort of miracle.

He let out a huge sigh, and sent a quick prayer to his God, "Give me strength. Please help me lead this people to safety."

"You know some could mistake you for a crazed old man if you continue talking to air," a voice piped in.

Arthur turned his head and saw Lancelot beside him. "You know you always have me to talk to. Your God won't give you the answers you need Arthur."

_He would never understand, _Arthur thought. Though Lancelot was his one and true confidante, they had never agreed on Arthur's choice of religion. For many years they had disagreed upon the issue, which led Arthur to simply ignore his friend's bitter comments.

"Look at them Lance," he pointed at the group. "What am I suppose to do? I can't leave them defenseless to the Saxons – they won't survive."

"And what about us? They longer we stay here, the more danger you put us in. Please Arthur, I beg of you…this is not the day to play the hero," Lancelot pleaded.

As if nothing was said or spoken between them, Arthur left his friend with no answers or reassurance of what was to come. The sounds of the drums once again pierced through the cold wind and it for one short moment, it felt to Lancelot that time had frozen.

* * *

Roaming the halls he called home his whole life, Alecto packed the last of his belongings in to his trunk and now awaited for what was to come. All his life, he was told he was destined for great things, and would lead Rome's people into God's salvation. All his life, he had been told of his future even though he was not yet sixteen summers old. He looked at himself in the mirror and studied his youthful face, secretly searching for the great leader he was meant to become.

"My dear Alecto, have you done packing? We depart soon," a soft voice spoke.

He turned to face his mother, who at that very moment looked so angelic and peaceful that she seemed to contrast all the chaos around them. She was a gentle woman, fond of her son and kind to everyone around her. By contrast, his father was everything she was not; harsh, rash and power-hungry. It baffled him why such a gentle woman like his mother could tolerate such an unjust man.

"Mother, tell me what do you see in the mirror?"

She walked behind him, rested her chin on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. She stared into the mirror and took a long gaze. "I see a mother who loves her son," she paused and continued. "I see a young boy who wants to grow up too soon. I see a mother who wishes her son will always remain the baby in her arms, but alas life does not work like that."

"How am I to know if God has chosen the right path for me? What if I don't want that path?"

"We will never know for certain what the future holds, Alecto. Men have gone mad trying to answer that very question you have asked."

She hugged her son, and held him for a moment; silently reliving the memories of his infancy and his younger years. He was just a boy; yet he was wise beyond his years.

A knock interrupted the familial bonding, and both mother and son turned towards the door, where Isolde was now standing. "Arthur has asked me to come inform you that we will be leaving shortly." she simply stated.

Alecto and his mother looked at one another, and then looked at the room one last time and quietly followed the female Sarmation knight out of the room, down the corridors and out of their home. Alecto, curious of the female warrior, kept paced with her long strides and stared at her. Unease at his gaze, she asked, "Is there something wrong?"

He shrugged his shoulders, "I was not aware Rome let their women carry swords."

She glanced sideways at his curious face and smirked at him. "Rome will take anything she wants, regardless of gender or religion; living or the dead."

"You're a slave?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Yes," he stated. "Slaves are often beaten if they disobeyed. They don't freely walk around as they please and besides, you're a pagan."

Since his father had taken care of his education, it was taught to him from a very young age that there were certain people who would always be in God's favour, and those who were born to serve his messengers. Any disobedience to their masters was a direct disobedience to God. He had studied the knights upon their arrival, and he knew immediately that they were no ordinary slaves of Rome, causing him to doubt his beliefs for the very first time.

Isolde chuckled at naivety, and said nothing as they were approaching the horses. She noticed a huge circle formed around Arthur and began to make out his voice, which pierced through the air like roaring thunder. Sensing the tension around her, she glided her hand towards the hilt of her sword, and made her way to Dagonet who had a young boy – barely seven summers old – in his arms; unconscious, dirty, and badly beaten. Alecto's mother had run past her and knelt before a woman of youthful appearance who was very much in the same condition as her counterpart except she was awake and was clearly aware of what was happening.

"Dagonet.." she whispered warily. "Who are they?"

"Found them in the dungeons. The Roman monster kept them hidden; he was going to leave them there to die."

Isolde knelt down and felt the boy's face. "He's burns," she quietly murmured to herself. Her eyes caught sight of the odd angle his arm was in and gently touched it. "It's badly broken. Most likely for a few days now," she said.

Marius' voice then shook through the crowd, "And YOU!" He pointed at his wife, "You kept them alive!"

He ran towards her and slapped her right across the face, with such force that it caused the woman to fall to the floor. Before she had anytime to react, Arthur had already taken control of the situation and punched the Roman scum in the face.

She turned back to Dagonet, "Take them both to the cart. They aren't in any condition to travel."

He nodded, and scooped the boy in his arms and marched towards the cart. Following suit, Alecto's mother helped the badly bruised female prisoner and slowly limped, following the larger knight's shadow. Isolde sighed out of exhaustion, tired from everything that had unfolded over the last few days. She got on her horse, and out of routine quickly checked that her weapons and belongings were in order. She wrapped her cloak around her body, as the cold winds began to prick the skin on her bare skin.

"How are your scouting skills?"

She looked up and saw a very tired Arthur, silently asking her to do what he asked without any objection. "Now what stories have you heard about me from the Legionariis?," she lightly commented.

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes for a quick moment before opening them again and solemnly looked at her. "I don't doubt Tristan's scouting skills, but I can't afford anything to go wrong at this very moment. We've lost too much time, and the Saxons are getting closer. I know you and him aren't on the best terms, but I am asking you Isolde, as an old friend, to grant me this one favour and help him; he can't cover that much land in the amount of time we have."

"He won't take my help, Arthur. You know that," Isolde quietly said.

"Yes he will."

"Since when did you become a prophet?" she bitterly joked.

"He's the one who asked me," he replied. "But don't tell him I said that. He's tired, just like the rest of us. He needs the extra eyes. Please, Isolde."

She pursed her lips, and stole a glance at Tristan's direction who was conversing with Lancelot. As if suddenly aware of his surroundings, Tristan looked up and met Isolde's eyes. She silently begged herself to look away, but her head refused to turn away. He held an unreadable face, which was hidden away by the braids of his hair, yet Isolde could have sworn for one very quick moment, he gave her a grateful look, as if he already knew that Arthur had already asked her of the favour he requested.

"He's so tired he's turned delusional," she commented.

Arthur lightly chuckled, "You may think otherwise Isolde, but he still cares for you. If he didn't, do you think he'd even care for a second glance?"

Her hands gripped her reins and she stiffened her smile. Though the tension between the former lovers had not been as catastrophic as Isolde imagined it to be, they were still not on speaking terms. There was so much that needed to be said, yet neither had bothered to step forward. She closed her eyes, and against her own wishes the faint memories of a young girl being chased by her lover through fields of grass emerged in her mind.

* * *

**A/N: Enjoy! I tried not to re-tell the whole movie, and so I decided to use the script and plot of the film as a backdrop. Because, lets face it....I think we all know the movie a little bit too well. :)**

**Don't forget to review!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14:**

The ride into the Woad infested forest was completely silent, with only the sound of snow being crushed underneath the horses' great weight. The faint drums of the nearing Saxon army could be heard in the distance like some methodic rhythm being hummed by some witch.

Isolde made sure to leave a great amount of distance between herself and Tristan, who rode in front her. For now, she was being his shadow; scouting from behind, listening to the shadows and feeling the wind. She deeply sighed. The silence between them was becoming so unbearable that it felt like a lingering open wound in the chest.

Tristan suddenly stopped, startling Isolde's horse and herself. "Shhh," she cooed to her horse as she stroked his mane to calm the great beast. Even he knew of the tension that was in the air.

She glanced up at him, and narrowed her eyes at the scout for making such a sudden stop.

He shrugged, while checking his bow and bluntly muttered, "Pay more attention."

A screech pierced the cold air, and Isolde looked up to see the scout's hawk gliding through the air as it encircled an area above the forest. She looked back at Tristan, which seemed that he knew exactly what the bird was telling him. Sensing that they were approaching the Saxon army, she griped the hilt of her sword, ready for an impending ambush.

Tristan looked back at her, with a hardened look which only confirmed her fears. "The army has split up, with the main army marching towards the wall."

Isolde quietly gasped, as images of the poorly armed stronghold would be overrun by the barbaric Saxons caked in mud and blood. 'Will Arthur make it back to the wall in time?" she asked.

He remained silent, which only worsened the situation. "An army of about 200 plans to cut off our retreat."

It suddenly became extremely difficult to breathe, as she felt her breastplate constrict her chest each time she inhaled the crisp air in the forest. She sadly looked at the scout who threatened to break her heart knowing the hatred he held for her.

"You must go back to Arthur and make sure they survive," she stated. "If Arthur is defeated, the people at the wall won't have the slightest chance of survival. He _must_ make it back alive."

"And yourself?"

"I'll follow the main army. I'm a fast rider; I can make it back without being seen. The Romans will be already leaving by now, but I can persuade some of the men to stay long enough to wait for Arthur, and protect the Wall until then."

She turned her horse around, committing herself to her almost suicide mission.

"So you'll just run back to your Romans like you did last time?" he bitterly muttered.

She stopped her horse and looked back over her shoulders and sadly smiled at him. "Whether you choose to believe me or not, I didn't mean to hurt you."

He scoffed and proceeded to turn away into the forest in the opposite direction.

"How wrong you were," he whispered.

* * *

The screams of the accused prisoners echoed against the stone walls, as the stench of rotting flesh filled the stagnant air. The guards held up the bloodied prisoner, dressed in shredded rags as his skeleton hung like a dead body.

"Do you now admit that you've been conspiring against Rome and planning to assassinate Caesar through the acts of poison?" stated Marcus.

He gripped his sword. He did not want to be here. On the contrary, he'd rather be on the training grounds, sparring with Isolde or one of the other men. Instead, Livius had sent him on a pitiful quest to arrest and interrogate any possible traitors lurking with the Senate.

"I…I.h-ha-ve d-done n-nothing wrong," the prisoner spoke.

He nodded at the prisoner guard to burn him once more, and again the screams filled the room. Marcus took his sword and used it to lift the prisoner's head.

"Just one name, and I can make the pain go all away," he said slowly.

The prisoner began whimpering in fear, partially on the fear of death, and partially because Marcus knew he was about to betray his loyalty to his cause.

"The Gen-neral….Ae-t—Aetius. He is m-my master," he sobbed.

Marcus held his breathe, as his old mentor's name was whispered so quietly, he looked at the guards wondering if they caught the name. He gulped, and in one great swift move, he ended the prisoner's life, as promised.

He looked at the guards, and in his most confident voice he ordered them to dispose of the dead body and continue on with their duties. Marcus swiftly left the prison cells, quickly grasping the severity of his situation. If word spread that General Aetius was implicated in the attempted assassination of Livius and Ricimer, it would not only implicate himself, it would put down any hope that he could be with Isolde.

Aetius would die; he would die and Isolde would surely die at the hands of Livius.

No, he wouldn't let that happen. His involvement _needed_ to remain a secret; at any cost.

It was decided. Aetius and anybody else who knew of his allegiance needed to be eliminated. He closed his eyes, feeling the guilt immediately rushing over him as he was about to betray the man who taught him how to ride a horse and how to hold a sword.

But it had to be done: for the sake of his happiness with his future wife.

He gathered his men, and shouted out the fateful order, "You are to arrest General Aetius on the suspicion of treason."

* * *

Isolde rode through the forest with lightening speed, careful to ride near the shadows of the trees. She could hear the drums of the Saxons, and knew that though they were marching hard to reach the wall, she would reach it first giving her some time to gather what army was left to defend the wall.

A twig snapped in front of her and she immediately halted and was quick to aim her bow towards the shadows of the forest. Her breathe was quick, and she closed her eyes to calm herself down.

"Shh.." she whispered to herself.

A twig snapped once more, but she could not detect in which direction it came from. She gripped the limb of her bow so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"Sarmatian," a voice called out.

Isolde whipped her head towards the voice, and realized it had come from high above the tree. She narrowed her eyes to focus on the blue figure whose own bow was aimed at her head. Isolde looked around, knowing that the Woads like to fight in groups, and was likely that there were more of them hiding in the shadows with arrows aimed at her.

"Killing me now would be no use to you," she started slowly.

He chuckled. "I have no intention to do so. I have no war with you, Sarmatian."

"But I serve your greatest enemy."

"Not by choice," he corrected.

"What do you want?"

"The Romans are of no use to you anymore. Save your breath, for they leave this island and its people defenseless. Merlin has offered his people to protect this land and we will fight to our deaths for our land and people. Any ally of Briton…is an ally to us."

The Woad lowered his bow, and nodded his head, gesturing a truce and alliance between Sarmatian and Woad.

Isolde slightly hesitated to do the same, but saw reason in his arguments. This was their home, and the Saxons were threatening to conquer them, just as the Romans did centuries ago. She loosened her grip and lowered her own weapon.

"Gather what men you have and prepare yourself for battle. We must do what we can until Arthur arrives."

"And if he doesn't?"

She smirked, "Arthur will come. He has to."

She kicked her horse and continued riding through the forest in more desperation, praying to any God that would hear her to protect Arthur and the rest of the knights.

_Bring them back alive. Bring them all back. Briton needs them. _

_And I need him._

_

* * *

_

Each passing second felt like a year, as Isolde desperately waited for Arthur and the knight's safe return. The minute she reached the wall, she practically flew herself off her horse and called for Maximus and some of the Roman Legionariis who had accompanied her on their journey. Though these simple soldiers had no love or desire of this island, they knew better than to disobey her, partially out of fear and partially out of admiration. But Isolde also knew deep down that they resented Bishop Germanius just as much as she did.

She stopped Jols from tending the horses, and immediately sent him to gather what men who had some skill in holding a sword, as well as to check what spare weapons they had in the Roman armoury – if the Romans had left anything for them.

In order to calm herself down, and to step away from all the chaos that was happening, Isolde found solitude at the top of the wall, and was now staring at the forest in the distance, waiting for the knight's return.

But what if she was wrong? What if they couldn't defeat the Saxons and Arthur and all the knights were dead? What then? There were only seven of them against practically two hundred men. Had she put too much faith in the legend of Arthur Castus?

_No,_ she thought to herself.

Figures began to emerge from the forest, and Isolde could only squint her eyes to see a line of people slowly making their way towards the wall. She recognized the carriage that the boy Alecto and his mother were riding in, and felt slightly relieved that they had arrived safely. However, she furrowed her brow when she failed to see Arthur or _any _of his knights.

She quickly ran down the stairs and into the courtyard to meet the exhausted faces of the men, women and children who looked like they were ready for bed or a good meal. Calling over Jols once more, she instructed him to go find some spare food and water for the newcomers that were still coming in.

"Where is Arthur?" she asked Alecto as his tired body exited the carriage.

"He and the knights stayed behind. To fight the Saxons," he sadly replied.

She looked at him and sadly smiled, sensing that as a young man, he had wanted to help and fight but knew his life was far too precious and valuable to take such a daring risk.

"You're braver than you think, Alecto,' she said reassuringly. "Your time will come."

"My father's dead," he simply said, though Isolde noted that he spoke without grief or sadness.

At the corner of her eye, she could see Bishop Germanius storming at them, ready to inspect if the boy had any injuries or wounds. Isolde narrowed her eyes at him and unintentionally gripped Alecto's arm so tight that he winced suddenly. If Germanius felt that Alecto was well enough to leave, Isolde was sure Germanius would order to her ready the carriage immediately.

"Alecto, if you wish to do good in Arthur Castus' name, be the brave man I know you are and do everything in your power to stay at the Wall as long as possible. The Saxon army _will_ come, and we cannot leave this place undefended," she said sternly.

He nodded his head and looked over Isolde's shoulders to see the Bishop approaching them, ready to preach in his prayers for his safe return. However, with a blink of an eye, Alecto quickly took his mother by the arm and led her in the opposite direction, most likely to help the others out.

"Where is the boy going?" questioned Germanius.

Isolde bit the inside of her cheek to avoid making a face at the man she had come to hate more than any Visigoth she had encountered. "It's been a long and dangerous journey for him. He's tired, and wishes to rest. As does his mother. I'm afraid our journey back will have to wait a little longer."

"I would discourage our party from staying any longer than necessary," he retorted. "In case you have failed to notice, the Saxons will be here any moment."

"Now, Your Grace," Isolde taunted. "Running away from the enemy never did any good. They'll always catch up to you. And at the pace we've travelled, it's almost inevitable that we'll be outrun."

Before the Bishop could respond, Isolde turned around and exited the courtyard and walked towards a crowd of men who were sharpening the swords Jols had managed to find in the armory room. She held one up, and inspected its quality and decided it was a decent sword – mostly Roman made. It couldn't compare to the blade that she carried around her waist, but it would out maneuver any Saxon blade.

A commotion near the gates caused Isolde's head to look up, and the sight of the tired knights caused her to drop the heavy blade onto the ground. Arthur, whose face was now cake in sweat and blood held a solemn and grave look as he led the other knights in. One by one, they led their horses to the courtyard, each holding such a look of despair and anger that it sent a shiver down Isolde's spine.

"Lancelot, what's happened?" she cautiously asked.

He gave her one long hard stare, saying nothing and walked away. Confused, she turned to Bors and mentally asked the same question. He looked like he was ready to kill the next Roman in his path, but merely gave Isolde a huge grunt before walking away and muttering he needed a drink. Frustrated at the lack of response, Isolde yelled in no one in particular, "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"It's Dagonet," Gawain quietly responded. "He fell into the ice. He…he may not live."

Shocked and confused, Isolde's eyes focused behind Gawain and landed on a large body which was hunched over a horse being guided by Tristan.

"He needs your help," cried Galahad. "I was too young to remember, but Lancelot said you were a healer before. Help him Isolde!"

Memories began flooding into Isolde's head as images of a dying Caradoc threatened the tears which were now forming in her eyes. Unable to speak, Isolde could only stutter as she slowly walked up to Dagonet's limp body and held his cold hand.

She looked up at Tristan, mouth open, wanting to speak but no words could come out. She looked over to Arthur, whose grave face was almost begging her too save his old friend.

She closed her eyes, letting her memories consume her.

_The door crashed open and Isolde looked in horror as she saw Uther, the knights' trainer and mentor carry a lifeless body that she immediately recognized as her brother in his arms. A great arrow protruded from his chest, as his blood dripped to the ground._

"_Brangaine, Isolde. He's been hit by an arrow."_

_Isolde stood frozen, refusing to believe that her one and only family was dying on her table._

"_Dear sister," Caradoc croaked out._

_Isolde immediately ran towards him and grabbed his hand._

"_Shhh, brother. You'll be alright," she said unconvincingly. Her own voice was shaking, and she had failed to notice the tears that began to form._

_Caradoc managed a stiff smile, trying to mask his pain. "I wish I could have been a better brother."_

"_Don't speak like that Caradoc. You'll be alright. I promise I won't let you die," Isolde whispered._

_He weakly gripped her hand, but Isolde could tell her was beginning to lose strength from the loss of blood. His complexion began to whiten and his eyes which were once so full of life were now becoming unfocused and dull. _

"_It's not fair," Isolde cried out._

"_Nothing's fair in this world, sister," he managed weakly._

"_You can't leave me..Caradoc, please!"_

"_I won't leave you. I promise; you'll never be alone.""_

_She felt his hand go limp, and his eyes slowly close. She stood there, frozen in time, hoping it was just some cruel joke he was playing. Any minute, she thought, he'll jump up and laugh._

_But he remained still – dead._

Isolde brought her shaking hand to Dagonet's heart, feeling his heartbeat growing weaker by the minute. He was still alive, but for how much longer, Isolde did not know. Her eyes followed his wounds that were caused by the arrows and felt slightly relieved that none seemed completely fatal. She looked back at the knights, all now staring intently on her, secretly wondering if their old friend would abandon them in a time of need, or live up to a Sarmatian's honour.

"Isolde…"

It was the first time she heard him say her name in almost thirteen years, and it caused her legs to slightly sway at the sound of his voice. He slowly approached her, his gaze only on her and stopped just inches away from her face.

"Caradoc was not your fault," he said in a low whisper.

She closed her eyes, but was unable to keep the tears that now landed on her cheeks. "I made a promise to myself long ago that those I loved would never die on my table."

"Then honour your promise."

She gave a nod, and Tristan wasted no time to move Dagonet's body off the horse and making his way towards the healer's quarters. The other knights followed suit, with Bors and Lancelot offering their shoulders to help with the weight of the great, but gentle knight.

"Isolde," called out Arthur.

"I'll try Arthur. I swear on my brother's grave, I'll do everything I can to save him. But the healing arts…it's something that I haven't done in so long."

He gave her a reassuring smile. "I trust you Isolde. And I promise I won't bear judgment against you should the worst happen. And I can't thank you enough for all that you've done here."

"Will you lead these people into battle?"

He gave her a wary smile. "This Britons…a people I've called my enemy for so many years now wish for an alliance. The very people who took my mother away from me. I long for peace and solitude in Rome, but now I'm thrust into another battle that I'm sure will lead me to death. I do not know what to think."

She scoffed. "If you seek peace, do not seek it Rome. You will never find peace among the Romans. There is always war, if not by swords then by words. And if you leave with the Romans Arthur, who will defend the people?"

"I want the freedom to choose my destiny," he tiredly whispered.

She gave him a knowing smile. "Nothing's ever fair in this world," she replied.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15:**

"_The art of giving back life is a blessing and a curse," explained the older woman as she was busy crushing various herbs and seeds in a bowl._

_Isolde, timid and afraid of her new surroundings watched from the corner, in awe and shock from her new teacher. The wild strays of her hair were loose from her bun, while her dress which Isolde assumed had seen a better day was a faded shade of blue, and riddle with faint stains of what Isolde thought was blood, dirt and oils. _

_She looked at her own hands, small and pink in flesh and pictured herself doing the very same things that Bragaine did. She pictured the blood, the guts, the sweat and the image almost made Isolde's stomach hurl out her breakfast._

"_Skilled enough," the older woman continued, "and you can heal some of the most deadly wounds, poisons and inflictions. You must be compassionate but strong-willed. We healers deal with death everyday. It is our enemy, and it can be our friend. We must learn to face death and laugh at him and yell, 'I live another day!' Death is inevitable, but we can only hope to give life back to those whose time has not yet come."_

"_Aren't you afraid?" Isolde asked shyly._

_The healer stopped at what she was doing and turned to look at her young apprentice. She cocked her head to one shoulder and asked, "Afraid of what?"_

"_Having the ability to take and give life as you please…as if you were some deity."_

_Her cool grey eyes bore straight into her own, sending a cold shiver down Isolde's spine. "I do not claim I am some sort of God, girl. I do not choose to give and take life as I see fit. If you are to follow my footsteps, you must understand this: We are not gods, but merely human. I do not claim immortality nor do I give it. We embrace death and fear it."_

_The young girl let out a slight whimper, suddenly afraid of her task ahead and suddenly afraid of the older woman. She wanted nothing more than to find her brother at the training ground and run into his arms. She hated this place. She hated Briton. She hated the Romans._

_It wasn't fair._

"_And when death is the victor?" she asked, surprised that her voice did not quiver._

_Her teacher held a tight smile. "Death is always the victor. We may win the battle, but he will always win the war."

* * *

_

Tristan and Lancelot came close to kicking down the door to the Healer's room, as Bors slowly followed with Dagonet's body hunched over his back with the help of Gawain and Galahad. Carefully placing the giant knight on the table, Tristan wasted no time in starting a fire and calling for a maid to prepare for hot water and clean cloths.

The silent scout was no healer in any high standards, but he would watch Dagonet from time to time and had learned enough to know what was needed.

"Do you think she can help him?" cried out Bors, masking his tears in a wall of anger.

"She's the only one skilled enough," reasoned Lancelot.

"What if she can't? She said herself she doesn't practice the arts anymore." cried out Galahad.

Tristan listened silently to the other knights as they voiced their worries at Dagonet's condition. He dared not to speak his true opinion for he knew it would make matters worse. He knew when he spoke, it was only the truth and nothing more. He saw the fear that ran through Isolde's eyes as she could only remember that grim day. There was even a passing thought in Tristan's mind that she would run away again.

He clenched his fists in anger, in hurt and in fear. He wanted to hate her, ignore her, bruise her and fight her. But he could not bring up the courage to show Isolde the pain that he had gone through when she left him.

_Coward,_ whispered a voice inside his head.

He closed his eyes and turned around to face the fire and away from the knights. _I refuse to listen, _he said to himself.

_You are afraid of admitting the truth…about her._

_She is nothing to me,_ he yelled at himself.

_She is everything._

He slammed his fist at the wall, silencing the internal argument within. The knights looked at Tristan, startled at the rare outburst of emotion, but merely only accepted it as a reaction to Dagonet's situation.

"He'll make it, Tris," said Bors. "He's supposed to rule my village with me and help me with Gilly's training. He'll make it! He has to! Curse those damn Romans! Curse them to Hell! This was never supposed to happen. We're free men! Dagonet is a free man!"

She came in swiftly, cutting Bors' pleas and cries to silence. He watched her scan the room, sensing the tension and worry in the room. If she was afraid, Tristan had difficulty reading it for Isolde held a straight look of determination on her face. She looked in his direction and held her gaze with him for only a moment before quickly moving towards the basin. He managed to suppress a grunt in his throat as her eyes bore into his. He saw a flint of fear and raw emotion in her eyes that he felt all too familiar with.

It was the very look she had when Caradoc died. It was the look that haunted him ever since.

"Lancelot, help me out of my armour. I cannot breathe," she said tiredly, as she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic.

On any other day, in any other situation, Lancelot would have made some crude remark or lewd suggestion. But today, he remained silent and was quick to obey without any objections.

He watched her slowly and carefully as she gently touched the few arrows which were still embedded in Dagonet's thighs. He watched her eyes gliding up and down Dagonet's body, and her hands as they made contact to his chest, and watched her fingers twirl around the ties of Dagonet's tunic to remove it. He watched her as if she was a dancer or a seductress, and found himself hypnotized by her every movement.

Sensing his penetrating gaze, she looked up at him. He tensed his shoulders and was quick to mask any emotion that he was afraid had slipped out. Her eyes still held the same intensity, but he was quick to note the tears that were forming around her eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her, silently asking her if Dagonet would live.

As if she could read his thoughts, she called out to him, "I need your help."

The knights looked at their exchange, half helpless and feeling confused at the former lovers. They all chose at the moment to excuse themselves from the room, feeling the increasing tension in the room.

As soon as the door closed, Tristan broke eye contact and quickly removed his own sword and armour and made his way to the basin.

"His heart beats, but is very weak. He's lost a lot of blood and his body is frigid cold. Even if I do seal his wounds and keep him warm, he may not be strong enough to break his fever," she stated quietly.

"Dagonet's strong enough," he said.

"Tristan…," she whispered as if his name was a forbidden word.

"Honour your promise," he echoed.

She closed her eyes to recompose herself and gave him a silent nod, before they both began diligently working at stitching up their wounds. Their arms and fingers danced around each as Isolde pierced her needle into Dagonet's skin, and Tristan's own hands cleaning the wounds and applying a salve and bandaging his friend. The room slowly began to heat up, as Tristan made sure the fire kept burning to keep his injured friend warm.

Neither spoke to one another nor did they dare to make eye contact. When their fingers accidently touched, the other would immediately jolt away.

It felt like hours before Tristan's shirt became drenched in his own sweat. They had done all they could for their friend, and now the only thing left to do was wait. What cloaks or blankets left in the room were now wrapped around the giant knight.

"Death is always the victor," she half-murmured to herself.

She looked up at him, and he saw that her mask was now gone. It wasn't Isolde the warrior, or Isolde the Roman that stood before him.

It was his Isolde. It was the girl he fell in love with, now grown into a woman. It was the vulnerable and sweet-hearted Isolde that shivered at his every touch and yearned for his kisses.

He wanted to run towards her, and kiss her as if nothing had ever changed between them. He wanted to feel her hair through his fingers, and smell the nape of her neck. He was surprised to find his feet walking in her direction, as if his body had a mind of its own. They were dangerously close now, and beneath the sweat and dried blood, he could faintly smell the lavender oils on her skin.

_No, _he said to himself. _She is nothing to you._

_She is everything,_ a voice whispered back.

"Isolde…" he roughly whispered, desperately wanting to replace the lust with hatred, but feeling his entire mind and body refusing to do so.

She blinked away her own tears and placed two fingers on his lips to silence him. She lightly touched his hair and slowly brushed away the braids that fell to his eyes. He was exposed now, feeling his own emotions betraying him.

His hand went up to touch her face and removed the few strands of hair away. She too, was exposed now.

No words were spoken, and they held each other's cheek in their hands, frozen in time. His thumb began slowly caressing her smooth pale skin. In that very moment, they were not the hardened warriors, nor were they broken lovers.

In that very moment, both wanted to be the young lovers they were, careless and naïve – alive and happy.

A whisper danced around the room, each reliving the memories of their past, each not wanting to let go.

"_Promise me you'll love me forever."_

"_I promise."_

"_Do you love me Tristan?"_

_"I would love no other but you."_

But reason and fear overtook Isolde mind, as her eyes shot open and was quick remove her hand and herself away from him. Her emotions became hidden, her mask back in place.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, nor do I seek it," she said.

And with the blink of an eye, the young lovers disappeared – gone, forever with the wind.

"Why?" he asked.

"You know why I did it."

"We could have helped. _I_ could have helped."

"It wasn't your burden to bear," she said irritably.

"And so you ran. Like a coward," he stated.

She closed her eyes to stop the tears from flowing. "Yes," she whispered.

"We searched the fort for _days_. We thought you were kidnapped, or worse. I went into the forests looking for you - for any signs that you were alive. Arthur sent dispatches all over the island and we found _nothing_," he forcefully said, feeling the anger burning through him again.

"I didn't mean for anybody to get hurt, Tristan," she said desperately.

"Well you did just that," he spat in a low voice. "You tore me in half. You ripped my heart out. I lost the will to live."

"Did you think it was easy for me? Running away? Running away from you? I cried every morning and night for six months! _Six months!_ I hope it would numb the pain but it didn't. I cried because I was a coward. I cried for Caradoc. I cried for you! Did you honestly think I wanted any of this to happen? Caradoc wasn't supposed to die! It shouldn't have turned out like this!"

"And now you go back to your Romans," he harshly whispered.

She looked away and turned to the wall but spoke loud enough for Tristan to hear. "Maybe it's for the best…this time. I am not the same Isolde you remember, nor are you the same Tristan I remember. We are different people now. You are free from your service now, while I must return to Rome and complete mine. There will be no victor in our battle, I'm afraid."

"Go back to your Romans," he hissed, angry at the words that came out of her mouth and angry at himself for exposing his thoughts. "Be the coward you've become and run away from everything you hold dear to your heart."

Without taking another look at her, he swiftly grabbed his belongings and walked out the door.

_You are the coward,_ the voice whispered.

_She is nothing to me,_ he angrily said to himself.

_She is everything.

* * *

_

Arthur sat in his bed, contemplating at the grave situation that was inevitably to come. Dagonet would probably not make it through the night. Germanius had betrayed him, murdering the man who had taught him how to be a just man. The Saxons would regroup by nightfall, giving almost no time for the villagers to have safe passage. The Woads had sought him out, pleading for his help and asking him to be their leader in a losing battle. He had finally earned the freedom for himself and his men, after fifteen long years and wanted nothing more than peace and solitude from blood and war.

Briton was not his home. He had no obligation to protect it anymore.

Or did he?

He stood up and went over to the basin to splash some water in his face. If he left, the Woads would be leaderless. The people would have defenseless, and the Saxons would surely win. His encounter with Merlin and Guinevere continued to haunt him. Their hope for their people relied on him.

But why?

Isolde's words haunted him. She warned him the Rome was a city of corruption and greed. It wasn't the city that Pelagius had preached. Rome was supposed to be the city of philosophy, morals and justice. It was the birthplace of scholars and scientists, not murderers and politicians. If Marius Honorius embodied what a Roman was truly like, then he feared that Rome was nothing but an idea to him.

What use was there now? Pelagius was dead, or so he learned from Alecto. Rome was nothing to him now. But what was Briton?

* * *

**A/N: Short chapter, but I felt I needed to end it there. I hope I didn't disappoint in the Isolde/Tristan action, after all the build-up. The next chapter will probably be spent in Rome focusing in on Marcus and Aetius (I feel like I've neglected them enough) The plot will thicken…I promise!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16:**

A flock of birds flew above the courtyard breaking Aetius' thoughts. Looking up, he narrowed his eyes at the blood red sun that was now descending into the horizon.

_Blood will be spilt tonight,_ he thought solemnly.

_But who's blood?_

A soldier came rushing down the corridor, breaking his thoughts. Heavy panting and the look of fear masked his face, causing the blood to quicken in Aetius' veins.

_Blood will be spilt tonight,_ he told himself.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"My L-Lo-rd," the dark-skinned man stuttered as he struggled to catch his breathe. "We've been betrayed!"

"Betrayed? How? What have you learned?"

"I have received word that Marcus has issued an arrest warrant for _you_, my Lord," he quickly replied, and was careful to cast his eyes down.

Aetius remained silent, but the look on the general's face had scared the young soldier that he had dared not to continue to speak, but continued carefully, "You have been charged with treason, my lord. The army will be here by nightfall, and have been commanded to bring you in dead, or alive."

"Is that all?"

"My Lord?"

"Remember what I told you that these were dangerous times, Quintus. If I run, it will solidify my guilt. No, that will not do. Everything will be continued as planned. Go and ready your horse Quintus, and you must tell Senator Gracchus, unless he's already been informed."

"We should have never trusted that Primus Pilus," Quintus spat.

"He has never betrayed me, Quintus. Marcus _must_ have reason to do such a thing."

Aetius closed his eyes and took a deep breathe Marcus was like a son to him; he would _never_ have betrayed Aetius without good reason.

_So this is how the great General of Rome will meet his demise,_ he told himself

"No…it won't end like this" he said.

The red sun was almost halfway down, which didn't give much time to Aetius. He was no politician; he knew he would not survive the Senate. He was not a young soldier either; he knew he would not survive the dungeons. But Aetius was a general, and a solder of Rome since he was a boy. Aetius fought with a sword and shield, not with words and lies.

"Quintus, gather our men and spread the word of my arrest. Tell them that the great general who gave Rome the head of the Barbarian King, Attila the Hun has been rewarded with imprisonment. Tell them to gather their swords and horses and march the streets of Rome and shout these words. We have waited far too long in this political game and now we are trapped. It's time to start thinking like a damn soldier in a battlefield."

"What will that do, my Lord? It will only create chaos in the streets."

"Where there is chaos, there is distraction Quintus. It will give Senator Gracchus to make his move, if he plans on making one."

"And what of you? You will let them take you?"

Aetius sighed, "I still have enough fire in me, boy. Marcus greatly overestimates himself if he thinks he's mastered this game of his. He is not the only ally I have in the Senate, and I have enough proof to implicate him. I will go and see what Marcus intends to achieve."

"This is injustice, my Lord. I will not see you called a traitor."

"That makes two of us, Quintus."

* * *

The walls were full of whispers and rumours. Anywhere Isolde walked every child, woman and man had heard some story about the Saxon army that was coming to tear down the wall. One woman told her that the gods were punishing them for living in sin, while another told her that the army had secret magicians that carried wildfire in their cloaks.

Each moment exhausted Isolde. Her fingers were still trembling from tedious needlework from Dagonet's wounds. Her legs were sore from riding through the Northern forests. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept, eaten or bathe herself.

And she was cold.

Feeling the headache that was about to explode in her head, she quickly removed herself from the chaos of the confused villagers and climbed the stairs to the wall where the lingering remaining Roman soldiers were patrolling. The wind was considerably stronger, whipping the strands of loose hair into her face, and sending shivers down her spine.

"Will he live?"

She turned to see Lancelot, plagued with worry, fear and anger. Isolde patted his shoulder and gave him a small smile, "He'll live, Lancelot. He broke his fever, so it's now only a matter of time before he wakes up now."

Before she could react, Lancelot pulled her into a tight hug. 'Thank you," he whispered. "I knew it was difficult for you…to do that again."

Isolde tensed up, and gently pushed him back. The fear once plagued Isolde, now somewhat seemingly didn't feel so daunting anymore. She had saved Dagonet's life. She had honoured her promise.

"Carodoc would have been proud of me," she whispered.

Lancelot smiled, "You know he knew about you and Tris, back then."

"What do you mean?"

"You two tried so hard to keep it a secret, that it wasn't really a secret." Lancelot turned to look at the Northern forests and ran his hand through his hair. "He wasn't mad. He was happy that you were happy…but he didn't think Tristan was the one who made your days brighter at the Wall. Actually, he was hoping it was actually me who would woo you. Anyways one week before the accident, he gave Tristan his blessing."

"W-What?"

But Lancelot pretended not to hear her. He needed her to listen, for Tristan's sake. "He's never stopped loving you. _Never._ But he keeps everything locked up inside him, and sometimes I think he purposely goes to do the most suicidal missions just so he can get himself killed so he can forget about you."

"Why are you telling me this?" Isolde asked suspiciously.

"The Saxons will be here by nightfall tomorrow, Isolde and you're going to leave again. I'm finally leaving this island, and so will my brothers. You will never see Tristan again. _Please_, do not let it end like this."

"And what do you expect me to do? Unlike you, I don't have the luxury of freedom. I will go back to Rome whether I choose to or not."

"Do you still love him?"

"What kind of question is that? That has nothing to do with – "

"Just answer the damned question Isolde."

She was scared to say it, to admit what's been haunting her dreams and her thoughts every day and night. Barely a whisper, she spoke, hoping that the wind would carry her voice away and Lancelot wouldn't have heard.

"I've never stopped."

"He would go to the ends of the world for you, Isolde"

"You make him sound like a love-sick fool Lancelot!"

"That's because he is…he just doesn't show it"

* * *

Isolde sighed and stayed silent. Lancelot's words were now becoming a heavy burden on her shoulders. The Saxons were coming. She worried for the people, she worried for Arthur and she worried for the knights. The Saxons were coming, and she was leaving for Rome. The gods were unfair to her.

Of all places to be at, he found himself sitting on the bedside of the giant knight, whose eyes had still yet to open, though it gave Arthur great relief that his heart was beating strong thanks to Isolde.

He should have been outside, helping with the evacuation of the villagers, packing his own things for Rome, and spending his last moments with his knights and friends, yet he could not force himself to move. His heart mulled over the dead brothers, his mother, his father who had sacrificed their lives.

What good were their lives for now? The Saxons were coming.

"What would you do, old friend," he asked Dagonet.

The giant remained silent, but Arthur knew what his answer would be. And he knew it was the right answer, yet his heart was still torn between two ideals; his dreams of Rome, and his memories of Briton.

"Rest now, you've earned it." He quietly said, and squeezed the sleeping knight's arm before leaving the room.

His brooding mind had not noticed the slight disorder that was happening around him. His shoulders had bumped a few people, but he did not care to notice, causing a few concerned and worried looks his way. Arthur didn't care though, and he kept walking to wherever his feet took him.

He found himself being stopped by some unknown force, causing him to look up only to find it was Isolde who had both of her hands firmly on both of his shoulders.

"You look like a dead ghost Arthur," she commented.

He remained silent and gave her a grim smile. He then felt himself being pushed down the corridor, the silence of the stone masking the voices of fear and disorder from the outside. He closed his eyes for a moment and welcomed this change, but even then the silence also gave him an uneasy feeling. She led him to the round table, where she quietly shut the large oak doors, leaving the world outside behind them. Turning around, Arthur noted the dark circles underneath Isolde's eyes, and the slight hollows in her cheeks and secretly began to wonder when the last time she had slept or ate.

Then he tried to remember the last time when he did the same.

Isolde reached in her cloak and pulled out a letter whose seal was still not broken, yet the slight tears and wrinkles in the corners told Arthur this letter was at least a few months old.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Don't you recognize the seal?"

He took a closer look at the engraved red wax and his expression somewhat soften. It was no mistake – that was the seal of his old friend, Pelagius. He then tightened his jaw, remembering what Alecto had told him only days earlier that Germanius had excommunicated him and sent Pelagius to his death.

"Why do you have his letter?"

"I saved his life once…had I known his life was still in danger,I would have arranged some protection for him…" Isolde began, afraid Arthur would bear some hatred towards her.

Sensing her fears, he gently replied, "I do not blame you Isolde, if that's what you're thinking."

"He asked me to give you this letter when he learnt I was to travel to Briton."

He took the letter from Isolde's hands and carefully broke the seal and unfolded it, his eyes scanning each word as it slowly sunk in. His eyes stopped at his signature at the bottom, where his friend's name bid his last farewell. Closing his eyes, he sent a silent prayer for the one man who had taught him everything he had come to known.

He looked up to Isolde, who had leaned against the edge of the table looking at him with such intensity that for a moment he felt like a child who had just anger his mother.

"He tells me not to go to Rome," he said.

She gave him a slight nod, as if she had already expected his answer. "They were not kind to him, those Romans. They called him a heretic, they sent assassins, and they murdered his followers."

"Was the Rome in my dreams just merely a dream?" he wondered.

"Perhaps, once upon a time, Rome was exactly how you dreamt of it. But her beauty is now aging, and she's become a bitter, old and resentful hag."

"He tells me Germanius has made plans for me to enter the Senate."

"Germanius loves only himself – you cannot trust him. If he intends to befriend you, he intends to use you, and then throw you to the dogs when he's done with you. Arthur, you _are_ a free man now. You have the freedom to chose your own life. If you go to Rome, your freedom will only be an illusion. They will pull you like a master pulls the strings on a puppet."

"And if I stay in Briton?"

"You can lead this people, Arthur. You have friends here."

"You mean Merlin and Guinevere?"

She shook her head. "They will follow you, yes. But the knights, you'll have them; their love, their laughs, their anger."

"They will go back to Sarmatia and forget about this island."

She pursed her lips. "Sarmatia isn't what we remember anymore. The Huns are crossing the lands, raiding all the tribes; it's become a dangerous place. You and this island are all they have left, I'm afraid."

Silence engulfed them once again, leaving each to their own thoughts, wondering what was to come. Isolde, dreading her life back in Rome, and Arthur, realizing that the Rome he dreamt of all his life would almost likely always remain a dream.

"Then I know what I must do then."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17:**

The first fires were lit shortly after nightfall. A shout from a soldier patrolling the wall had alerted Alecto and the others around him that the first Saxons were no more that a hundred feet from the wall. The few children who were still too young to understand the grim situation ran up the stairs of the stone wall to see what was so interesting. Some women around Alecto cried, while others began to pray. He looked at his own mother, hoping for some small comfort but even her smile could not ease the emptiness and restlessness in his own heart.

He wanted to fight the Saxons back at the lake, but Arthur wouldn't let him. Was his life so much more valuable than others?

He shook his head. _We are all flesh and blood. I am no more than the old woman sitting next to me._

Yet, Germanius and others in Rome would not agree with him. His own father had taught him that it was God was determined who was to be a slave. His father had told him God had great plans for him, and he would be the Bishop of Rome one day.

_Lies, all lies,_ he told himself.

"I do not wish to go to Rome," he said.

His mother looked at him helplessly. Years of abuse from his father had made his mother into a quiet woman who spoke very little. He knew she could not help him, for women in Rome had no power or influence. Yet the Sarmatian woman had intrigued him. She was a slave of Rome, yet she was also a soldier who spoke with such defiance and strength. She was a woman, yet all of the men had respected and feared her. It gave him a slight hope that everything he was taught was wrong.

"It is not fair that we leave all these people to their deaths. I must do something," he said desperately.

"And what would you do, my son?" his mother wondered.

"I don't know,' he replied timidly. "But I can't sit here knowing that we will be leaving this island while the Saxons are making camp, and this wall will remain defenseless."

His caught the silhouette of the female soldier, who was now conversing with the other Sarmatian knights. She was beautiful, he thought. Instead of the heavy cloaks and armor she wore, she was wearing a simple black tunic and breeches that hung so closely to her body, he felt his cheeks slightly blush. Her dark hair was braided, yet the wind had tossed the loose strands into her face. She almost looked like death's shadow; dark, beautiful and dangerous.

Taking a deep breathe and standing up straight, he slowly walked over to her. She had not noticed him at first, as she was looking at the increasing fires that shone like stars over the fields of grass below them.

"When do you think they will attack?" the blonde hair knight asked.

"Saxons are impatient. They'll most likely attack at first light," she replied.

"Will that give us enough time?"

"Even if the Woads do hold the wall long enough for the rest of the people to head south, the Saxons forces will eventually crush them, and it won't be long until they pillage their way to southern shores. I'm afraid we're just running now."

Alecto gulped and coughed, causing both knights to look at him. The blonde one glared at him, and tensed up, while the female one held a straight face, but bore no look of hatred or contempt. Alecto casted his eyes down. He knew the knights would blame him for their friend's misfortune. If it wasn't for them, they would have never been sent to North of the Wall.

"You should be resting. We leave in the morning," said Isolde.

"Is it true? We will not be able to avoid them?" Alecto asked.

"What's it matter to you Roman?" spat the blonde knight. "You'll be taking the rest of the Roman infantry with you back to Rome tomorrow, leaving everyone here to dig an early grave."

"Gawain!" she scolded. "It's not his fault – He's just a child."

Frustrated, Gawain stormed away, leaving Alecto feeling even more helpless than before. "Don't worry about him, Alecto. Tensions are running high right now," Isolde assured him.

"How can I help?" he desperately asked.

"There's nothing we can do, Alecto. I have orders to evacuate and bring you back to Rome. Bishop Germanius is adamant we leave as soon as we're ready," she said sadly.

"It's not fair, Isolde. I do not deserve any of it."

"Nothing is ever fair."

"Is there a slight chance we can defeat the Saxons?"

Isolde paused, her eyes scanning the growing enemy across the fields. "The Woads are passionate fighters, but they lack formation and leadership. They've never faced a battle like this since the Romans first came to occupy these lands. Even _if_ the Roman infantry were to stay and defend the wall, the only way we can defeat an army that large is with a very good battle strategy, and someone to lead them."

"Can't you help them? I mean, the Woads…give them a plan? Tell them what do to?"

She bitterly laughed. "I'm no leader, Alecto. The Woads won't listen to me. I'm a soldier like all of them. I follow orders and I kill. I can maybe lead a handful of men and slaughter a scouting party, but I am no general."

"What about me?"

"You barely know how to handle a sword and you've never seen battle. What use will you be?" she wondered.

"You said your orders were to escort me back to Rome. What if I commanded you to stay?"

Isolde looked at him, her eyes studying his every muscle on his face. Alecto stared back, and mustered all the courage he had to remain strong. He was no longer a boy; he needed to be a man now.

"I don't take orders from you. I take orders from the Bishop."

"I will take care of that," he said reassuringly.

"The Bishop is not that easily persuaded, Alecto. If you mean to outsmart him, you best already have a plan in that head of yours."

* * *

The stables were the only place that Tristan could get away from all the unnecessary crying, yelling and whining that seemed to drown the streets. He went to his horse and stroked his side, while still feeling the slight heat on his cheek where Isolde's hand laid before.

For a moment, he lost control of his emotions.

He closed his eyes and began to control his breathing. Control, he thought. It was something that had kept him alive all these years. It was something that kept him from insanity.

_I am already insane, _he told himself.

_Yes, you are. You're mad to just let her go._

_I will not listen._

_You must. _

He let out a cry and released his dagger to a wooden post in anger, which neatly embedded itself within the grains.

"Save that for the Saxons," a voice piped in.

He inwardly groaned. It was not the voice he had wanted to hear tonight, but the gods had decided to be unfair. "Who said anything about fighting the Saxons? I'm going home," he spat.

"You? Go home? Since when does Tristan run from battle?" she mocked.

She was beside him now, giving affection to his horse while avoiding his gaze. "You cannot leave," she quietly said.

"Give me a reason not to," he whispered.

Her eyes hesitantly met his, and he noticed the tears that were threatening to drop from her eyes. He fought every urge in his body to stay still, but he wanted nothing more than to kiss those tears away.

"Arthur."

"I don't follow him anymore."

"If you bear any love towards him, you won't let him do this alone. Please, Tristan…" she trailed off.

"Why does it matter to you? You're leaving."

"I would stay if I had the choice."

"What for?"

She sighed. "This is my home, Tristan. I learned to heal, I learned to laugh, I learned to love, and I learned to cry here. I ran away from it once, and now I'm back after so many years of sadness and regret. I just can't leave it again on the eve of a Saxon invasion. This is my home, and it's yours too."

She hesitantly brought her hand up to brush away the strands of hair away from his eyes. She bit her lip out of nervousness, when he tensed up when her fingers brushed his skin again. She lightly traced the tattoos on his cheekbone and for a moment he closed his eyes as he felt her touch.

"Isolde…stop."

"A thousand times, I'm sorry for the hurt I've caused you," she whispered.

"Stop."

"No. I need to say this, and you need to listen. I lost the only family I had, and I was afraid I was being left in this world alone. I feared that if I couldn't save my brother, then I wasn't good enough to save anyone else. My greatest fear was that I wouldn't be able to save you, and I would be alone forever."

"You didn't have to run. You could have talked to me. I _begged_ you to talk to me. You were never alone, Isolde."

"I know," she said quietly. "Do you hate me?"

He paused, unsure of what to say. _Yes, _he wanted to say.

_Don't be a fool. Tell her the truth! She is everything to you_.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards his body and brought his lips down upon hers with such ferocity and hunger, he was almost certain he would frighten her. On the contrary, he found that Isolde was returning with the same strength that he stumbled back a step or two to regain his balance. He tightened his grip around her waist, as her hands went through his hair and attempted to pull him closer.

Isolde pulled away to catch her breathe, but Tristan was hungry for her kisses, and tightened his grip even more. He moved his lips to the outline of her jaw, remembering that it always made her laugh.

"Tristan..please.." she begged.

She moved her hands and placed them on his chest, motioning for him to stop. Neither of them moved, but remained entangled with one another, not wanting to let go as if they both knew this would be their last moment together.

"I'm to go back to Rome," she broke out in a quiet sob, letting the tears falls down her cheeks.

He placed a kiss on each cheek, wiping away the tears that had stained her white skin. "I'll fight the entire Roman army to bring you back."

For the first time since she left, he heard her laugh. "You sound like a love-sick fool."

"That's because I am. It hurt so much not being with you, that I didn't want to live anymore."

"What happens now?" she asked sadly.

"We live to see tomorrow."

* * *

She rode down the streets, double checking the last soldier that was to follow them back to Rome. Dawn was breaking, which gave Isolde very little time to say her goodbyes to her old friends. For once, Bishop Germanius was awake at such an early hour, eager for their departure before the Saxons began their march.

"How much time do we have left?" asked Maximus.

"We leave as soon as the old man breaks his fast, I suppose."

"Shame we're leaving so soon. I was sort of hoping to swing my sword a few times at those Saxons," he jested.

"Yea…me too," she mused. Truthfully, her mind was on Arthur, on the Woads, on the knights…on Tristan. Her shoulders slumped slightly at the thought of never being able to see him again, yet her heart told her that perhaps fate would be fair to her sometime in the future.

She had spent her last night in the stables with him, like a pair of foolish young lovers. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember every last moment she had with him. They held each other in their arms, lying awake knowing what was to come in the morning. It was the happiest and saddest moment Isolde had felt in a long time. She must have dozed off at some point last night – when she woke, Tristan was nowhere to be seen, only a wool blanket that he must have found and draped over her shoulders.

A tear threatened to drop on her cheek, before she quickly blinked it away.

The Bishop finally emerged from his room dressed in his most extravagant robes. She heard Maximus attempting to withhold his chuckle, which made her smirk. Catching his eyes, the Bishop motioned for Isolde to move forward before swiftly entering his carriage.

She gave a huge sigh and a sad nod in response and proceeded to pull the reins of her horse to signal to the rest of the soldiers to begin marching. At the corner of her eye, she saw a lone silhouette on his horse at the top of Badon Hill.

It was Arthur.

He had decided to lead this battle and protect the people who had chosen to stay and fight. She wished so badly she could be there beside him; that she would have the honor in her brother's name to fight alongside Arthur Castus.

A war cry in the distance caused the horses to stir. The war drums which followed ceased everyone to freeze, and Isolde felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. She became suddenly afraid that Arthur would not win this battle.

She needed to stay and help. But how?

_Oh, where is Alecto and that wonderful plan of his?_

As if the gods had heard her, a rider suddenly came running up the ranks stopping by Isolde's side. "We must stop," he hastily said.

"What's happened?"

"The young boy and his mother…they're missing."

_Wonderful plan, indeed._

She was careful to maintain a straight face, and not let any emotion compromise the supposed severity of the situation. If Alecto and his mother had somehow hidden themselves away, then who was in their carriage?

_A decoy,_ she thought. _Smart boy._

She gave a curt nod to the soldier. "We cannot leave without the boy, I have my orders. You will escort the bishop to the nearest inn and set up post there until my return. Defend it as if your lives depended on it. I'll take a handful of my men and return to the wall."

"And the Saxons?"

"I'll deal with them as they come. You better pray to your God they're not holding the poor boy for ransom, otherwise you'll never be going back to Rome. And you better pray Arthur wins this battle."

She turned her horse around and motioned to Maximus, who seemed to have caught the tail-end of her conversation. He was already gathering the few Roman soldiers that they had learnt to trust enough to go back with them. Maximus gave her a sided smile and hearty laugh. "Looks like we'll be getting some Saxon blood."

* * *

**A/N: Up next: The Battle of Badon Hill! (phew, finally!)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18:**

The sounds of clashing metal brought a dull ringing sensation to Isolde's ears that drowned out the screams and growls from the men around her. Saxons, Woads and Romans ran past her as she struggled to maneuver her way through the field and towards the wall.

Her small party, consisting of Maximus and some other soldiers that she trusted had arrived right after the first attack. She witnessed the skies light up in fire as the arrows of the Woads hiding in the forest had cut off the first Saxon flank from their main army. The smoke from the pig fat and oils were so heavy it stung Isolde's eyes. It was difficult to see who was an enemy and who was a friend.

She turned to Maximus whose sword was already drawn, "Alecto and his mother will most likely be hiding with the other villagers in the Great Hall. Take the men and find them. Keep them safe."

She paused and corrected herself, "Keep _all_ of them safe."

"And yourself? How are you going to find your man in this mess?"

"Easy. Kill every Saxon I see – that will narrow my search."

"Be careful Isolde. I don't want to go back to Rome alone with the Bishop," Maximus replied solemnly. With a curt nod, the Roman soldier turned his horse and led the other soldiers towards the fortress.

Isolde brought her focus to her surroundings and narrowed her eyes through the thick black smoke. Bits of yellow and blue whizzed past her, as she clutched her sword tightly in her hand.

A flash of metal came at her, but her own arm moved even quicker to block the attack. She begun to move her legs in the intricate footwork she had come to master. The sword, which became her arm, moved with striking speed and strength that the Saxons proved no match for her.

Each collision of steel rang through her body. Saxon after Saxon, she fought her way through the battlefield, hoping to catch a glimpse of the knights. They were a strong opponent, but they lacked strategy and focus. They relied on brute strength to bring down their enemies, she observed.

A large pain sliced through her back, causing her knees to slightly buckle towards the ground. She hissed in pain, but knew better to check what damage had been done. Turning around she whipped her sword around to meet her attacker, but was met with a hard kick to the chest sending her body sliding across the mud and grass.

The Saxon growled at her as he slowly brought his ax above his head, preparing for the final blow. A heavy foot stomped on her chest prevented her from reaching her sword which was lying just out of grasp on the floor.

_So this is it_, she thought.

An arrow suddenly flew above her and struck the towering Saxon in the chest. The weight from his foot slightly lifted off Isolde's body, and she wasted no time to use her strength to push hers body out. Grabbing her sword from the mud, she sliced the neck of the Saxon, ending his life.

"Isolde!"

She turned around and saw Gawain running down the field to meet her. She gave him a curt nod, but was deeply relieved to see a familiar face on the battlefield. The fresh blood on Gawain's arm caught Isolde's attention. "Are you badly hurt?"

Gawain looked down at his shoulder and lightly touched it. "Just a scratch. What about you? He cut your back pretty good."

She had almost forgotten the pain that was seething down her spine, but shrugged it off. "Just a scratch,' she echoed.

"Did the Romans decide to help after all?"

She chuckled, "Not entirely. Alecto and his mother are somewhere in the fort. I have some men looking for him. Have you seen him?"

"Sorry, been kind of busy," he jested.

Their conversation was cut short when a pack of Saxons swarmed them, and no sooner Isolde and Gawain were reunited, they were quickly separated in lightning speed.

Time seemed infinite, and fighting didn't seem like it was going to end. The weight of her sword slowly became heavier and heavier in her hands as she brought down her weapon to the oncoming Saxons. The blood, mud and sweat had caked onto her face, while the strands of her hair had come loose from her braid. She was relieved to catch a glimpse of Galahad and Bors, who were fighting back to back, while she managed to catch the shadow of Lancelot through the fire and smoke.

Her heart sunk though, as she was unable to located Arthur or Tristan.

The determination to find them alive and fighting kept her energy up, and she pressed on through fighting and fallen men alike.

"Roman!"

She turned to her right and was faced with a towering figure draped in fur and leather – the largest Saxon she had seen yet. His eyes were not filled with fear, rage or hatred, but seemed hollow and indifferent and it sent shivers down her spine.

"I am no Roman," she seethed through her teeth.

They were now circling around each other, swords ready, waiting for the first to attack. It reminded of her sparing sessions with Marcus back in their Roman courtyard. "You drink their wine, eat their food, sleep with their men and clean up their piss. You're a Roman," he declared.

"What does it matter to you whether I serve the Romans? You'll kill me Roman or not."

He smirked and let out a low growl, "Or I could keep you as my pet."

Something inside Isolde snapped and she suddenly lunged towards the Saxon with full force. Their swords clashed with such force that Isolde let out a small scream as the pain vibrated throughout her bruised body. The Saxon once again taunted her, "Girls shouldn't play with swords."

He suddenly kicked her shin, sending her to the ground. Wanting to avoid the same predicament she was in earlier, Isolde immediately rolled over to her side right before the Saxon's sword sliced through the air and into the grass. Her sword had been thrown to the ground a few feet away from her, and decided against of retrieving it just yet. She drew two long daggers from her boots and twirled them in her hands.

"Children's toys," he sneered.

"I've killed men bigger than you with these little things," she taunted.

"Show me."

"Gladly."

Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Isolde danced around him blocking each attack with speed. The daggers were easier to control, though it didn't give her the same strength as her long sword. But she was quick on her feet, which gave her the advantage of confusing her enemies.

Her blade finally met resistance as it sliced through the Saxon's armour and drew blood on his side. She smiled, but dared not stop at her victorious momentum.

Her arm was suddenly stopped as he caught her wrist and tightened his grip so that she was forced to drop her blade. She seethed in pain as it felt like he was cracking her bones into a million pieces. At the corner of her eye, she saw another blade coming at her at such speed, she had no time to react or defend herself.

A sharp pain exploded on her side and a cry escaped on her lips. He deliberately took out the blade slowly and let loose of her, allowing Isolde to fall from the ground. Her hands went to her side, her blood slowly seeping between her fingers.

"Children's toys," he repeated. He walked over to her sword and began inspecting it, running his fingers along its edge.

"Sarmatian," he stated. "I think I'll keep this."

"Don't you dare," she spat. It took most of her strength to lift herself off the ground, as every movement began to feel heavy and slow. With one last ounce of strength, she reached behind her belt and threw a small dagger, which hit square in his shoulder.

The Saxon laughed as he retrieved the blade, acting as if it done nothing to him. "Foolish girl. Tell me, are you afraid of death?" he mocked.

He brought his sword once more above his head, and began to walk towards Isolde to give her the final blow.

She yelled at herself to move or fight, but her body would not listen to her anymore. Instead, her legs collapsed beneath her, bringing her to the ground once more.

"Death is... always the victor..." she whispered and she closed her eyes.

"Isolde!" a voice called out from a distance.

_I know that voice,_ she said to herself.

She turned her head, but only saw chaos and fighting. Woads, Saxons, swords, axes and blood began to blur as she struggled to find him amongst the battlefield. A body mass suddenly appeared in front of her, blocking the Saxon's attack. She heard the swords collide, but failed to see who the Saxon was fighting now. The blood she was losing was causing Isolde's vision to blur, and she could do nothing but lie on the muddied ground in pain. The sounds from the cries and grunts of men slowly became muffled, and a voice in her head began calling out to her.

…_.You are never alone, Isolde._

…_.Promise me you'll love no one other than me._

…_Aren't you afraid of death?_

…_Death is always the victor._

And then the world went black.

* * *

**A/N: Short chapter, I know! But it needed to stand alone.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19:**

_She awoke in the softest bed she'd been in for a long while. Dazed and confused, the slight turn of her head sent a sharp pain up her neck. She moved her hands, feeling the soft sheets that were covering her body. _

"_My Lady! You're awake! Oh Dominus will be so pleased!" _

_The high-pitched girl squealed in excitement, causing her to squint her eyes shut once more._

"_Wh-what are you talking about?" she answered in a rough whisper, surprised that her voice sounded broken and coarse._

"_You fell off your horse, Domina. Don't you remember? The entire household has been worried sick! You had insisted in riding the wild beast they captured, and it knocked you to the ground cold. You've been sleeping for weeks Domina...Oh, Dominus will be so happy!"_

_I don't remember being the mistress of a household, Isolde thought to herself._

_The servant girl quickly left her chambers, leaving Isolde alone. Slowly adjusting her eyes, she scanned the room and its belongings that looked foreign to her. She pulled herself up, and after a few shaky and uneasy steps, got out of bed and walked towards the balcony, which looked over the forum._

"_I know this place," she said out loud._

"_You should," a voice interrupted her. "This is your home."_

_She turned around and saw Marcus in his full Roman armour standing in the threshold. Surprised, she opened her mouth to respond, but found that her voice had failed._

"_Don't stress yourself too much, my love. You've only just woken up. Come, let's get you back into bed, shall we? You know, you've had me worry sick. Never scare me like that again. I can't bear losing you." _

_Isolde furrowed her brows, trying to remember why Marcus would suddenly become so familiar with her. "Where is my sword?" she asked, careful not to strain her voice._

_He gave out a low chuckle. "What a silly question, Isolde. Why would you need a sword?"_

"_Where is my sword?" she asked once again._

"_You don't have one anymore Isolde. You gave it to Titus, don't you remember? You've no need for one anymore. You're the lady of this household and my wife. What kind of husband would I be, letting his wife defend herself?"_

_The words stung her like a thousand daggers through her body, and felt herself collapsing to the floor. Lady? Domina? Wife?_ _A hundred questions were going through her mind, with no answers to satisfy her confused mind. She looked at Marcus as if he was a stranger, digging through her memories, but found nothing to suggest that they were familiar with each other. She was sure that he was just her commander and nothing more. But she faintly smiled, trying to convince herself otherwise._

"_I think I just need to rest," she said unconvincingly._

_He held her up by her waist, and brought her back to her bed. Pulling the covers up once more over her, he leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead before leaving the room for Isolde's privacy._

_Finding the sudden energy within her, she leapt out of bed and began sifting through the desk and wardrobe, trying to look for anything that could give her some answers. But she found nothing useful. Isolde grew frantic as time pressed on and she felt more and more confused. _

"_Isolde," a voice called out._

_She turned around, but no one was there. The voice called out again, again and again, each time louder than the last and each time more sinister than before._

"_Isolde!"_

_She turned around, and found him sitting in her chaise. He looked out of place, with his blue skin and tattered clothes against the backdrop of a Roman household. His face was worn and tired, but still vivid of the markings of his tribesmen._

"_I...I know you," she began slowly. "You're not from here."_

"_Yes, you know me. I am Merlin of Briton," he said quietly._

_The words sent flashes of blue and yellow colours, and swords clashing with one another in her mind. She saw a great wall that spanned for miles in a green mountainous landscape. She saw several men with their horses, crying out their war cry atop of a hill, before charging down for battle. She saw herself in a room filled with flowers and herbs, with an older woman. She saw herself fighting and kissing another man against a stone wall._

_It all came back to her at the mention of one word: Briton._

"_What is this place?" she asked the woad, suddenly feeling an eerie presence around her._

"_Tis a passing of time," he began slowly. "You are in between the world of living and dead, and in between of what have come to pass and what has yet to come. Presently, you are in Rome, as the lady of your husband's household, as it would seem."_

"_What do you mean? Where's Arthur? Where's Alecto...my men?"_

"_Shh…calm down child. Rest assure, this is not your reality yet. This is only one of many possibilities of what the gods bring you in the near future. Whether you choose to believe in it, but more importantly, whether you choose to accept it is another issue."_

_A sharp pain on her side sent her crashing to her floor. Grasping her abdomen, she felt the cold red liquid seeping through her fingers, and found herself struggling to breathe once more._

"_Pl..plea..please. I don't understand," she struggled._

_The woad looked onto her helplessly. "The gods will test you Isolde and you must be prepared. They will not be fair to you in your journey in the great war that has yet to come."_

"_I was ready to die there," she whispered._

"_Death is not your fate just yet."_

"_Death is always the victor," she murmered, her eyes feeling heavy and her breaths slowing down. The woad, which now stood above her, became blurred, and his voice slurred as she began to lose consciousness again._

"_Persevere Isolde, and fight like you've never fought before. This war will require all your strength and courage…for his sake and Arthur's." _

_And the world went black once more._

* * *

A load groan escaped her lips, and her body began shaking. Immediately at her side, Maximus picked up the cloth that had fell to the ground and placed it back on her forehead. Isolde had lost a lot of blood and for a moment, he thought that the bleeding couldn't be stopped. He was eternally grateful for the healer that he brought back from one of the villages who had volunteered her services to heal the Sarmatian soldier in exchange for passage to Gaul. The woman, after hours of trying to stop the blood and seal Isolde's wounds had warned Maximus that if Isolde did not break her fever by the morning, she would eventually die. Maximus hadn't left her side since, choosing to stay in the cramped wagon that was now headed to back to Rome after a number of death threats from the bishop.

The last few hours had been an emotional journey for him. He put his face to his hands, recalling the moment they had arrived to Badon Hill to aid Arthur.

It wasn't difficult to guess where Alecto and his mother would be hiding. As Isolde predicted, he found them hiding in the Great Hall along with the elderly, the women and the children. They were lucky they had not met a large resistance once inside the fort as Arthur's page, Jols, had set up a defense line outside. Deciding it was better for the boy to remain in the Great Hall until the battle was well over; Maximus rejoined with Jols and side by side, defended the fort and its people. When word spread out that Arthur had killed off their leader, the remaining Saxons were quick to surrender and in a split second, the Britons had won back their homeland.

Almost immediately, Maximus ran back to the Great Hall to spread news of their victory. Everybody quickly filed out, rushing to find if their husbands and fathers had perished in battle.

"Is it truly over?" ask Alecto.

"Yes, my lord. Didn't take much for the Saxons to surrender once they found out that their leader was dead," he replied.

"What happens now? Where is Isolde?"

He hadn't thought that anything terrible would happen to her. He knew she was a formidable opponent in battle; he had seen her fight before. But the question made his blood uneasy. "We'll find her, don't worry. We'll make sure she's okay and Arthur too. But we cannot stay long. The Bishop is waiting for you in the next village. He…wasn't pleased when he found out you had remained here. I'd reckon he'd have a few words with you."

"I am not afraid of him," Alecto stated.

Maximus gave him a stern smile. "I wish I had your courage then."

Walking out to the field, hundreds, if not thousands of bodies laid across the now bloodied grass. The sight made Alecto's mother gasp as she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to herself. The remaining woads and villagers were now scanning amongst the dead for survivors, and Maximus could not help but do the same. His eyes went from body to body, looking for his friend and her knights.

"Do you see her?" he called out to no one in particular. "Isolde! Isolde! Where are you?"

He yelled and yelled again, hoping she would rise from the ground and make some remark that always made him laugh.

But what he found wiped the smile off his face. He spotted the knights not a hundred feet away from him, huddle together and staring at the ground. He didn't see Isolde among those who were standing, and he immediately ran towards them paying careful attention not to step on the lying dead.

"Isolde!" he called out again.

The one he recognized as Gawain turned to him, and Maximus noted his eyes were glassy with tears. No words were needed to be spoken, as he followed his gaze and saw her still body lying on the ground.

"Is..she..," he began, fearing the worst.

"Barely alive," Arthur said solemnly. "If it wasn't for Tristan, she'd be dead."

His gaze led to another body not three feet away from where he stood, and looked at the wild knight who also lied still on the ground. He took a huge gulp. "Is he..," he also dared to ask.

"They both lie on the brink of death; Lancelot as well. He took two arrows to the chest," Arthur whispered. "If only I had gotten to them sooner, they would still be alive. I should have been there for Lancelot too."

"Don't go blaming yourself Arthur," Galahad said sadly.

"We need a healer," Maximus declared. "We must stop the bleeding."

Frantically turning around, he scanned for anybody that could help them, but didn't know who to look for. But what he found was something far worse than he'd imagine.

A scouting party was marching towards them, with Alecto and his mother in tow. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the banner. _Germanius._

"Legionarris," their leader stated. "We've been ordered to bring back the boy and his mother as well as you and the Sarmatian girl _immediately._"

It was Bors who now erupted behind his tears. "Well, as you can see Roman, she's in no condition to travel. She's hurt, she may die and she needs a healer. Tell your damn bishop he can wait a little longer."

"Orders and orders, sir. We're to bring _her_ back alive..or dead," he coolly stated. His hands went on the hilt of his sword, as if he was ready to fight.

"You dare raise your sword against us?" Bors challenged.

"I have my orders," he stated.

"Piss on your orders! I'll kill every one of you before you lay a hand on her!"

He unsheathed his sword, causing every other soldier to follow suit. Maximus, doing the same unconsciously stepped in front of Isolde's body. Even though they were not old friends, she had quickly become one of his best friends. She had opened his eyes to the injustice of Rome, and its corruption. She had inspired him to be a soldier for justice, rather than a soldier of Rome. He knew he couldn't go back to Rome without her - things just wouldn't be the same.

It was Arthur who put his hand on Bors' forearm, silently telling him to drop it. "Enough blood has been shed for one day Bors. We don't have the time to waste on these men."

He turned to their scout leader. "I'll let you take Alecto and his mother back to Bishop Germanius. As for Isolde, you better secure a healer and a wagon for her, or I swear to you I will hunt you down and kill you myself before you step off this island."

"I'll make sure she's well taken care of," interjected Maximus. "And I'd like nothing more than to rip out this man's throat should she die while she's in his care."

The Roman gulped, unsure whether if these threats were serious. But he knew better than to argue. He nodded to one of his men, and a group of them immediately ran to the wall looking for a wagon and a healer.

Arthur turned to Maximus, "Make sure she lives."

"Make sure he lives," Maximus replied, his eyes gazing down his body. "What will we tell them should they wake up? That fate has tore them apart once more? That the other may not live?"

"We tell them to live, and to cling onto the hope that they will be reunited one day," he said sadly.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20:**

He sat motionlessly in his dark cold cellar with the chains clamped around his wrists, waiting for his trial. The scraps of food that were practically thrown into between the metal bars were virtually ignored by the prisoner, welcoming the rats that came between the walls to share his meal. He would not move, would not talk and would not eat. It unnerved the guards that were posted to keep watch. He seemed like a silent killer, waiting to strike his enemies at any moment's notice.

His plan had brought a considerable amount chaos among the Senate. Not hours after he was arrested for treason, the people on the streets began shouting for injustice and corruption. He could hear yells of his release between the barred windows of his cell. He knew the people wouldn't let their war hero spend the rest of his days in a prison cell. There would be upheaval and shouts, and if probed, the riots and looting would increase to what he hoped would be the people's revolution.

Aetius was willing to sacrifice his life for his love of Rome – but he had to make sure he died at the right time to catapult such events.

He was disappointed that he was unable to put his trust into Marcus, who was like a son to him. _They must have gotten to him first,_ he thought. The only regret Aetius had in recent events was that it was his carelessness in trusting the wrong people that had him arrested by the very man whom Aetius would have gladly given his life for.

He was thankful that he had not heard any rumours or confirmation that Senator Gracchus was to share the same fate. It gave him some relief that their cause was not yet lost.

A commotion outside the hall caused Aetius to straighten his posture as he waited for his incoming visitors.

"Are you ready to confess your crimes against the Empire?" the younger man asked.

"I have done nothing but to ensure that the glory of Rome lives on," Aetius said defiantly.

Marcus motioned to his guards to leave them in privacy and waited until he was completely sure that the two soliders were alone. "I did not intend for this to happen Aetius," he said.

"If this is some offer of apology, then you're wasting your time. I knew the consequences and risks, as did you," he rebuffed.

"There is more at stake than you would ever understand. I had to arrest you; there was no other choice."

'What's done is done Marcus."

"I will need your confession though and the names of your accomplices and perhaps the Emperor will be merciful."

"And that is something I will not do, Marcus."

A silence followed, leaving each man to their own thoughts and to their potential fates. Aetius knew revealing all who were involved would risk the lives of many others, but their hopes of restoring Rome as a republic would die.

"You will bear all responsibility on your shoulders?"

"I will do what's necessary to ensure what needs to be done, including giving my own life. Rome is my life and my love; I will do anything to ensure she is restored her former glory."

"You will die a traitor."

"No, I will die a martyr."

* * *

She awoke under a full moon and dark skies. The air was silent and cold, though she was adequately warm underneath the mountains of blankets that covered her. Her throat felt dry when she opened her mouth to speak, but only a quiet sound broke the air. Every breathe she took in sent a sharp pain to her chest, causing her body to shake. She tried to move her arms and legs, but each limb felt tired and heavy.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, she found herself in a very small room that looked unfamiliar. She closed her eyes once more trying to recall the moments before she had lost consciousness in the battlefield, trying to remember the moment the Saxon has pierced her armour with his blade, and the pain she felt she the blood began flowing from her body.

She was ready for her death, but fate had decided it was not her time to die just yet. The lingering words between herself and Merlin in her mind confused her. She thought it was just her mind playing tricks on her, as a way to escape the pain, yet it felt so real.

It sent shivers down her spine, knowing she was in a place that felt so unnatural. _Was it all just a dream? Where is Arthur? Where is Tristan? _

The door slowly opened, with a woman who was carrying a tray of herbs and a jug of water. Isolde did not recognize the older woman, but she bore a strong resemblance to her old mentor, Brangaine. Her eyes lit up and quickly went to Isolde's side to check her temperature.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're awake!"

"W-who are you?" she struggled to say in a rough whisper.

"My name is Viviane. I've been tending to your wounds since Badon Hill. I thought the journey would be too much for you, but I'm so happy you're awake. Your friend, Maximus, he'll be so happy to hear the news."

"Journey? Are we not at the wall?" she asked suspiciously.

"We've not been at the wall for nearly four days. We've stopped at Londinium to refresh our supplies," she remarked.

Isolde croaked and lifted her head to reexamine her surroundings, but found herself inviting another headache. Viviane gently pushed her back into pillow, and placed a warm cloth over her head. "Try not to move," she instructed.

"How bad is it?"

Viviane gave her a grim smile. "We didn't think you would break the fever. The wounds were so deep that I didn't think the bleeding would stop. Your wrist is wounded and you've three broken ribs."

"Sounds better than it actually feels," Isolde remarked.

"You'll be confined to a bed for at least another three days. After that, mobility will be difficult without ripping the stitches out of your side."

"Thank you," she said gratefully to her.

Viviane gave her a curt nod, before grabbing the wash basin and leaving the room. Isolde immediately tried to lift herself up, but was met with an excruciating pain at her right side. She looked down and found her chest wrapped in fresh bandages. She looked at her wrist, in a makeshift splint almost bearing the same amount of pain. She tried moving her legs, but they felt heavy and slow. In frustration, she laid her head back down and stared at the ceiling, trying to recall the last thing before she blacked out.

Blurs of images ran through her mind, as she remembered fighting the large Saxon. She mentally beat herself up for succumbing to her own defeat. She replayed every move she made in her head, trying to figure out how she managed to fall.

_You enemy always has two hands,_ a voice echoed through her head. It was a mistake she had overlooked that nearly cost her life.

She was ready for death. She had embraced it with open arms right then and there. And then someone saved her. But who?

She'll never know, she thought to herself. She was four days from the wall, and wasn't going back anytime soon. Her thoughts drifted to her knights, and her heart sank wondering if they had met death. She stifled out a cry at the thought of Tristan's own demise.

_I'll never see him again,_ she thought.

Isolde suddenly remembered her dream and it brought chills down her spine. It had felt so real and yet surreal at the same time. Was it merely a dream? Or was it an omen of what was to come?

"Nonsense!" she said to herself. "Marcus marrying me…what a ridiculous idea!"

"Ah! She rises from her slumber," a voice broke out.

Isolde lifted her head to the door and saw Maximus casually leaning against the frame. He looked worn and tired, but still held a glint in his eyes that always brought warmness to her heart.

"Maximus!" she yelled, smiling at him. She felt relieved, knowing he did not suffer from serious wounds or a more serious fate than her.

"Isolde, I'm so relieved you are awake. We've been so worried about you."

"We?"

"Alecto and his mother of course. They've barely left your side…well, none of us had really. There's an animosity going on within the group right now."

"Tell me what I've missed," she said seriously.

"Germanius has finally lost his patience with you, I think. The ploy you and Alecto schemed so that you could stay at the wall? He found out and was furious. He literally had ordered his men to pick your body from the battlefield and drag you back to him. I, myself have gotten a few death threats from some of the other men for defending, oh what did they call you…Roman trash. Some aren't too happy with your actions, while others are calling you a hero. Alecto feared someone would want to end your life, so we agreed to keep watch for you."

"You make me sound like a hero."

"You are! In my eyes at least. And Alecto's too. I swear that boy has become inspired by you and Arthur."

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, as a sign of affection and a sign of trusted friendship. She gave a huge gulp and sigh. "Did..any of them…"

Maximus remained silent, unsure of what to tell her. "Tell me," she pressed on, mentally preparing herself for the worst.

"He was lying not three feet away from you. His fate…I do not know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry Isolde."

"There are no apologies between us Maximus. This is…just how life is," she said sadly.

"What happens now?"

"We go back to Rome, deliver the boy to the Pope and move on with life," she said bitterly.

"Somehow I don't believe that is your fate. I think you'll see your Tristan again. You'll have your happy ending."

Her mind went back to her dream, with Merlin standing above her. _This is one but many possible outcomes of what will come,_ his voice echoed through her head. She shivered at the sound of his voice. Could it be real? Was that life ahead of her in Rome?

"I don't think it'll be that easy Maximus. When we go back to Rome, I think we will be facing a new battle that we may not be ready for."

* * *

The knights spent their days cleaning up the aftermath of the Battle of Badon Hill, burying the dead, tending the sick and clearing the lands. They had barely seen Arthur, for he now occupied his time with the Woads and Guinevere, worried that there would be a second Saxon invasion. The battle had taken a heavy toll on all the knights. The fort's armory was nearly empty, food was in short supply, their line of defense was thin and they were short on beds.

And each night, the knights would rotate and watch over Tristan and Lancelot, who still had not woken up from their injuries. Dagonet had woke up from his own injuries and now walked about the fort with a large cane, helping in any way he could. But his recovery would be long and slow.

It was his turn to watch over his sleeping comrades, as he sat in his chair after making sure putting more wood in the fire. He sighed, exhausted after his morning routine. He brought his hand to his side and felt his own bandages. He sent a prayer to the gods to Isolde, hoping she was safe and alive...wherever she was.

He looked at Lancelot who had taken two arrows to the chest, one of which that was narrowly close to his heart. Most healers had refused to help him, saying he was already at death's door. He heard that Arthur begged Merlin to save his friend, using his rumoured wizardry to bring him back. Whether if it was true magic or not, Merlin had managed to bring Lancelot back to the living world. Now it was only a matter of time before Lancelot and Tristan would wake up.

The wild knight jolted in his bed and a sound escaped from his lips. Dagonet went to feel his forehead which had begun burning up. "Hang in there Tris, you can make it," he said quietly.

Another whispered escaped his lips, this time loud enough for Dagonet to hear. He was calling for her, calling for her to come back and Dagonet could only look on helplessly, wishing he could have helped. "Be patient my old friend. She'll come back for you. I know she will."


End file.
